LAURA ROMEYN
Overlook Swans dislodge pounds of pondweed from sea beds. Everyone points at that tip-down they do. Men too hang over the sides of their boats: half-in, half-out, unsnagging catch from knotted nets. Above the feed and tangle, walled up to the rail, birders crowd in on me. A chorus that won’t stop saying what a treat this is. Get a little closer girl distinctly untaken by what plows around in the weed-choked water. Notice me remove my glove with the open fingertips. Toss it to sea. What assessment will be made of this new bird in the fat earth underwater where wood overhangs.
92 | PHOEBE 48.1