The tide has drawn its long gray hem away
And left the flats in glistening disarray,
A field of stone and kelp, of tidal glass,
Where minnows in the shallow rivers pass.
The sun has slipped behind the wooded ridge;
Its embers linger, molten at the edge,
And spill in copper down the polished bay
To gild the ribs of sand where herons stray.
Above, the clouds drift blush and dove and pearl,
Their undersides still warm where light uncurls;
The eastern sky already turns to slate,
While gulls tilt homeward, small and delicate.
A single stone lies breathing in the tide.
The pines grow black. The wide world opens wide.