By Richard Weaver
The coast wind picks up the sounds
of bells echoing inland. It vanishes
under the dark wings of white birds. Blue fish
circle below. Their bodies
are unrecognizable whispers.
Exaggerations of design.
There is a purpose beyond their single need.
Water. Water and the cool shape of wings
overhead. They breathe the clear water,
the blue silence, hovering for a moment
outside time and space. They wait
for the birds to plunge back into the wind
that is their history and that holds the cries
of those too far out to find land or water.
When they strike the water
it is a black star falling into the sea.
It is a heart seizing a stone.
Richard Weaver lives in Baltimore where he volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank and acts as the Archivist-at-large for a Jesuit college. His book, The Stars Undone, was published by Duende Press. Publications: Conjunctions, OffCourse, Quiddity, Southern Quarterly, Magnolia Review, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, The Literateur, and Triggerfish.