All night beneath the stately turn
of the slooped and schoonered sky
they rode the star-filled swells
expensively, their halyards chiming,
that now are under jib and spinnaker.
From this hill, this humming top,
it might be ivory knights,
bishops, queens, gowns billowing,
who make their cryptic moves
across the mottled bay.
Overhead, a line of swans,
wings working up the air to whistle,
and this for heraldry—
a blue and silver kite, an osprey,
two redtails rounding out
the sky. How hard to believe
in anything
less heavenly. But there it is—
the dive, direct hit of the hawk,
and sudden tangent
to the nest,
that innerspring of rabbit rib,
shrew skin, quail down,
fox fur.
As for the yachts, the swift
white yachts—
how many among us
must be taken, bone and gut,
that these may be
so sleek?
—Rennie McQuilkin