When morning comes
and chases the shadows
of the night's owls

into the piney grove,
and the tiny fist
of a hummingbird

holds its flight
above the just waking
glory of the morning,

I know then I will find
the great and patient blue,
waiting out the still

shallows of the bay,
and the retreating
tide will draw the day's

tour of pipers,
stamping their mark
on a page of sand.