The Terns

The terns eclipse the august sky,
furrow the clouds an spiral high.
A rising shoal above the waves,
nosing downward, one form staves

in buckshot union, the skin of waves.

Ripping fish up to the sky--
all flapping fins they lift and fly--
all one, now fish and bird, a wave
that rolls up toward the open grave--

That sunlight sky, now blackened day.