Late in their southern wintering we’ve been told a few seals remain We approach through plantation-regular pine so quiet even squirrels leap without sound We move past pines past bare briars past the rich black swamp where cabbage thumbs thrust green At the unfamiliar beach whelks swing on twine strung on silvered branch the point curves and we look for soft firm quiet sand but small shells stand yards deep A crab crawls the pile water glistens in slipper cups the smell at once dead and alive When we reach the point when we see beyond the curve empty waves lap small and stony empty shore I had imagined the seals full sun snoring indifferent to our danger a lazy theater for our gaze Halfway between the shore and a mansioned island we spy rocks and boulders some small black some large some marked yellow banded white by birds and tide The ocean teases mesmerizes We watch for hours knowing them only when they move from brush stroke to curl the splash when they dive Knowing them only as they disappear
First published Rock & Sling, Spring 2022
Ellen White Rook 