Standing in the driveway by the trash cans
My mind wanders southward, a hundred miles
And more, to where herons feed in clear water
While boats swing restlessly in tidal streams.
I measure all of my daybreaks at home
Against the Chesapeake mornings I have known,
Anchored in the stillness of emerging light,
Waiting for dawn to open my shadowed eyes.
I hear the wind singing in the clothes-line,
Moaning in the roadside telephone wires.
And I know that it is the same wind that
Frolics far away in drum-tight rigging.
A grove of tall masts is tracing circles
In the sky as restless keels and unmanned rudders
Stain the blue water with rippling patterns:
Brush strokes from the steady hand of god.