Offering itself to the lake rim,
the sun edges into lineations
of live oak and swamp hum,
making the water electric
with fading orange yielding
to evening’s blue leisure.
They begin in short bursts,
separating over the field
until they flow in solid motion
like the red-faced semaphores
of motorists, bottlenecked
and twisting over the garden
where we bury their guano,
diving into the verdant ruptures
of bananas and pole beans.
They pass over the bench where we sit
backs to the breach of roadway,
and into the vanishing cypress shadow,
wings knocking at the locked
doors of our lives, little beacons
now barely visible, moving stealthily
through the gathering night.