How rapidly the tide turned, turns.
Still, turning now, gray wash and silt
Pivots on a finger of foam.
One could count time in its long
Trough, or lose it altogether:
Winter may thicken the air
Earlier than expected. Or,
An inflection in the shadow
Of the long crest is an increment,
And a small variation.
With it, we are joined, and continue.
A sharp-shinned hawk now wheels
Overhead, as each spring tends,
And shows its white underbelly.
~ Joan Kane