One was a white gull forming a half-mile arch from the pines toward Waukegan.
One was a whistle in the little sandhills, a bird crying either to the sunset gone or the dusk come.
One was three spotted waterbirds, zigzagging, cutting scrolls and jags, writing a bird Sanscrit of wing points, half over the sand, half over the water, a half-love for the sea, a half-love for the land.
One was a thing my people call love, a shut-in river hunting the sea, breaking white falls between tall clefs of hill country.
One was a thing my people call silence, the wind running over the butter faced sand-flowers, running over the sea, and never heard of again.
One was a thing my people call death, neither a whistle in the little sandhills, nor a bird Sanscrit of wing points, yet a coat all the stars and seas have worn, yet a face the beach wears between sunset and dusk.