An Egg Island Equinox

There is no radical shift of light
or redwings calling areas of marsh
their territories yet, nor plovers
probing for copepods. Only a yellow
front-end loader laying out a new berm
on the beach, from tubes too heavy
to be called hoses, its audience one man
and his protesting dog. No frosted
wedding cake on tour, no Cap’n
Beauregard hailing us from
the Texas deck, no Texas deck,
just an unshaven crew launching zodiacs
from the county dredge, its twin stacks
staining itself and the air with smoke,
as battered an emblem of hope as any other.
So spring comes to Egg Island, squealing
and unwilling. Sulfur and diesel,
flywheel, gear and grind until one morning
the equinox dawns and silences
the whole shebang.

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