A Few Things in Themselves
Along the bay live-oaks and magnolias
Gather massively the warm blackness
As birds dart and cry in their hard leaves.
At their base the narrow strip of beach
Is yellow and African in the late sun.
We hold off and let the boat drift....
The string of fish in the bottom
Lies in spilled oil, blood, and bay-water.
Their white underbellies gleam in the dusk.
A black watersnake is moving into
The closed, muscle-like bloom of lilies,
The darker swamp weeds along the shore.
Slowly we follow it, back to the dock.
And walk in the early night through crickets,
The low wind in the rusty screen.
For more on Alabama poet John Finlay, visit this post about his life and verse.
