Classic Poem

Black night turns dark blue,
a wedge of lighter blue,
dim gray.
Outposts on the beach
become aware of each other:
narrow stones
aligned to the east,
grouped around a driftwood stick
sixteen inches high.
In an hour--
sheltered by grass, overhanging
edge of the continent--
they will cast long thin shadows;
they will be first,
brave against the day.

For an anonymous sculptor,
Crescent Beach, Maine