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Air ripples the distance,
Small boats drift, fi shermen
Hunched on the water-blaze.
Sky over the spit's gone
Smoky red now; low lights
Along the north bay, more
On hills across the marsh
Jump, air-jostled. A last
Puff of warm land air dies.
From the boat basin now
Through the late dusk the white
Rowboat comes sliding out
On the still water, white
Refl ection under it
Slides along upside down.
Oarsman's fi gure just
Visible through the dusk
Moving off rapidly
In the silence, without
Noise of splash or creaking,
A good hand at the oars.
Night Heron fl ies over,
Squawks once, the marsh is dark
Inlaid with thin pale strips,
Oarsman rounding the point
Now heads up bay and boards
A sailboat at anchor.
Breeze now, the bay glimmers,
And that oarsman's in fact
A girl, her silhouette