Why does a gull fly so far inland,
Skimming the misted river’s swirl and flow
Like a loosed kite or tooled flint
Blurred in brief tangents of flight?
Above the brown silt drifting down
And pushed along, currents of trees
Slide by the river’s edge, as if
The colorist’s hand left them wet
And paints ran before they dried.
In the odor of movement and motion,
Grey mist bends and turns
In streams through running trees,
And even I, on the soft-sounded land,
Am swept away by the slow river
To the gull-less sea.