Early mornings, in the light still
faint making stones, herons, marsh
grass all but indistinguishable in the muck,
one looks to the far side, of the sound, the sand
side with low growing brush and
reeds, to the long horizontal of land’s edge,
where the sea is, on that
other side, that outside, place of
imagined real openness, restless, eternal ocean.
(The sound, Robert Creeley)
…to
