Poems by Barbara Southard

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by Barbara Southard

From Canary Fall 2014

Barbara lives in the Northern Long Island Watershed in the hills leading down to Long Island Sound.

From far off, the gull looks like a mound
of feathers on the bitter-cold beach,
eyes so alive atop a pile of useless fluff,
alone at the edge of the sea,
tide rising, pushing him back and forth,
clouds racing by.

To be so utterly alone, yet so alive.

He looks up to watch his flock pass by,
sees one turn back, fly round in circles
calling out again and again.

Come up! Come!

She flies one last circle above his head,
wings beating against his ruinó
then away from his watching eyes,
gray feathers animated by white,
mirror to clouds above
darkness of pebbles on the shore.

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