Long Island Sound

kneeling
between screeching gulls
and limpet shells
i cut my hand on unripened sea glass
lick the tiny wound and
kick the shard into the sand
a few more years
it will become treasure 

the tide is coming in
over the clams,
brittle steamers 
crunching underfoot

no one fishing from the pier today 
it stretches lonely into the sound
lapping at its pilings
echoes of summer bathers
in the February chill

the air today so still 
the young girl who brought 
a kite is out of luck
but the gulls have an easy time of it
plucking clams from muck,
dropping them to crack, expose their meat

from the foot of the pier
i turn away from the sound
watch the sun set over the pond 
wild geese and swans bellowing 
a message I have yet to comprehend