STATION NINE

IX

The terns rattle and chatter
in a tight nervous pitch.
They are invisible
but I feel them
like a cautious current in the air.
They sound like a gathering
of ancient tremulous butlers 
carrying white China cups
on paper thin saucers.
Underneath their sustained high notes
is the sound like brushwork on a drum
Dry grass rustling in a cool wind.
Then like spring peepers
they stop as one.
From my left
a song sparrow throws back her head dramatically
and trills a long aria.
One tern answers
two join to make three
then the entire white robed choir resumes
as if they have all risen from their seats.