A Hunt At Treasure Cove

On the bluff at Treasure Cove
little wife was whipping hands
at a gull anchored in the sun.
It was our Sunday visit with the wind
and old feathers pinned among the rocks.
The cormorants had an island,
they flaked off into wings
like a long line of bottles
slowly breaking up.

			  She was shouting,
"What do you want?" wavering
below the strutted gulls
and the plumed hulls of the clouds.
>From what I knew of her blue eyes,
she saw white sounds and 
the black umbrellas of the pelicans
folding, falling down,
where all things hunted from the sun
in the sea's gray brain
some pure frustration.