This is March. The sky is gray
and I will walk anyway
to the shore to see shore birds
hunkered down in deep grasses.
This isn’t the last poem I’ll write
about dampness in early spring,
the empty, bobbing moorings,
weeds tamped down by walkers.
Who knows? Light might brighten,
rouse a sleeping heron to flight,
touch dull water and clouds,
turn them to tin-bold brightness.