with wings, with waterwicking wool.
adding to the squall of gulls,
baa blat bleat ringing out over the beach.
lambchicks won’t fly until at least July,
lying about in sometimes the sun
sometimes the grey-on-grey sky.
seaweed-grazing, wave-chasing,
ambling up the jagged rocks to watch each other
play, raise their heads to sniff the salt air,
terror of heights unlearned.
a young fantasist drifts from the herd.
its world ends—nevermore
friends, mama, slippery stones, schoolchildren
tossing chips, dogwalkers
tossing sticks. taste of seawater.
taste of milk—
then, it thinks, i end. fresh seafoam before
it sinks. fresh cliff-prey, fresh red on beige
not today. swaying at the cliff’s edge
but falling skyward. calling out
to the soft selves of clouds, fellow
lambkin. and below, everything patchwork.
my beach, its seaweed. fields
and their grass. sea that i paddled in
bigger than i dreamed. everything,
even the way the light hits the water:
green, green, green.