Meditation on the Open Water

How many do overs

Should we expect

From perfection

How many autumn days

Along the migration route

Will open the portal

To eternity

The west wind

Has winnowed

The cumulus clouds

Into a fine tapered funnel

Into which may be poured

All of recorded history

The shorebirds exhibit

Varying states of hurry

But display no distress

Flying business class

On the high thermal

Of cold northern air 

Resting intermittently

On the smooth sheen

Of Shinnecock Bay

Out over the open waters

Sound travels far and fast

In the crystalline air

So a poem may raise itself up

Soaring along the same flight line

All the way to high heaven

A number of years ago I had a near religious experience while out paddling my kayak on a chilly November day.  I came upon a flight line of migrating shorebirds.  Whether they were cormorants or loons or some streamlined variant of a duck I have no idea, but they were flying in single file, just skimming the surface of the water, out across Shinnecock Bay.  A huge flock must have taken sanctuary overnight along one of the creek beds of Fourth Neck and now they were resuming their journey south.  They were countless in number, literally a flight line without beginning or end.  The birds seemed to emerge out of thin air, and flew straight towards me.  I paddled alongside for quite a while watching in wonder.  So focused on their mission they were unperturbed by my presence nearby, and almost seemed to be inviting me to join them en route.  Their flight line proceeded east out into the middle of the Bay and then suddenly banked north before veering south to catch the jet stream.  They flew with complete command of wind and air, like all migrating flocks, journeying directly through the medium of time.  It's only in autumn that we have a chance to partake in such journeys (if we're lucky enough) as time folds back on itself.