Sept. 23, 2009, 7:30AM

Traffic on Wharf Road
It’s seven-thirty
 Me,  early poet
Hell,  I don’t know it 

Cormorants fly by

Dive and disappear

‘neath Fall foggy skies

Snatch chow

Reappear

 

Beaches barren

Save one lone gull

On Stinson spit

And there ain’t no swell

 

Overhead a rumble

Airplanes they fall fast

Keep an ear, cuz it ain’t clear

Fog’s still in, but it won’t last

 

A new cormorant sits

The lone gull flits

All wings stretch wide

Then launch into a lofty ride

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