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JULY ON SWAN'S ISLAND
Donald Junkins

Early morning after the rain, the range
of blues and greens retains the dark night's
rainbow dream. Black cormorants in flight
from nowhere hurry singly by, and the strange

vibrato of crows lifts from the woods. I
remember little of the night except a fragment
of the long playing childhood dream, a long lost tent
opening beside a river, then closing, as if a great eye

blinked, and birches swaying in the sun
in full yellow Nod, that land of early summer play,
the way it recapitulates itself here in the early light of day
while diamond water sparkles blindingly East beneath the sun

and a lone lobster boat negotiates into the blazing light
and disappears. Yet the lingering engine hums
until the wind in the trees is the only sound, then
the crows again, nearer, slightly frenzied, still out of sight.


 




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