Through the blazed night
of bright November moon
palmettos drip shadows of the fall—
their light tunneled from

starflanks to marsh roots
while I, deep in the flannel
of shallow slumber wait
for darkness to ease and

dream the rule of thirds,
framing imagination into a
perfect sunrise moonset perigee
shot—Marsh. River. Sky.

Fair Ellen angled in repose
of the lunar swell. Then,
somehow the horizon tugs—
and there she is—her massive

silverpink self already settling behind
the lace of pine trees across the water.
Bolting from bed I snatch camera
strap and leap steps—pulled tendon

screaming all the way down the dock
where I, with capital D disappointment
watch her slip, slip, slipping
out of sight into the earth—gone.

Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.

O, the stomping and self-flagellation.
O, the lost composure of self and shot.
O, the unhappy heron I disrupted with my woe.
O, the scolding as he harrumphed to another perch.

And yet.
And yet there was that mist, that
delicate layer of daybreak mist.
Did I say that?

Did I say the marvel of fresh
breeze in first light? Or our
beauty boat content to loll at anchor,
her broad round beam a perfect echo

of the lost moon? And little shore birds—
did I mention them? Or the darts and flits
of swallows spattering the pastel sky?
And what of the white-capped eagles?

Did I say how they flew over,
unflappable as I indulged in distemper,
the pierce of their dawn song
beseeching me

to shut the fuck up
and listen
and look around.
And the blithesome dolphin?

Did I say how the dolphin must
have smiled, maybe even smirked—
smarter than I am smart.
So much smarter.

Fathoming composure far more deeply
than ridiculous me—
yearning, seeking, stumbling ridiculous me
who often, sometimes, cannot see.