The channel buoys call to each other
one note, and then another
like birds whose hooting comes in perfect
intervals. I mean the pitch of notes,
the space between them, not just the time
though time is always there, rocking back and forth,
the buoys swaying, high note, low note,
then a third, which sounds more like breathing,
the drone of an organ or bass,
sustained, dying away.
The sea is groaning, I hear it,
and the wind shakes the trees behind the dune
and the white-crowned sparrow sings again, again
and I’m standing between the spark and that
infinite sighing.
Kelly Terwilliger is the author of a chapbook, A Glimpse of Oranges, and a book of poetry, Riddle, Fishhook, Thorn, Key. She works as an oral storyteller in public schools and is presently putting together an anthology of poems of address as well as a library of videotaped stories.