It was summer and winter at once

in the harbor, season teetering, skipping,


it seems, spring altogether.  Sixty gray seals

rested in shallows where, all season, they’ll rest


and grumble as the spot lures skiffs of folks

who also want a bit of distance from town, who find it


here, at the dropoff’s swift gradation toward dark.

Early light. Recent fog.  Beneath us, horseshoe crabs


in singles and pairs shovel into sand, laying eggs.

Scoters, bright billed & late this cold May to depart.


A razorbill, winter harbor bird, opposite-breasted

to black bellied plovers staging on shore.  Then


the morning’s strange surprise—a storm

petrel at rest on the water.  We fell into our usual


chatter, debated the odds.  You saying

not so strange.  Me sure it’s the first time ever.


We put the light behind us, pulled out the camera.

Probably sick, we said when it didn’t take flight.  But what if


this gift has no sorrow wrapping it? What then do we know

of the world? I’ve been faithful to you for twenty-five


years and now my body’s becoming a new weather.

It was winter and summer at once.  We were old


and strange to each other at once.  I’m not sure

how to see anything clearly at all.