Seasoning birds through the sea are wings that flutter on Silvery Surface.
The winter strikes inland this time (willingly, maybe.
I sat on the wooden threshold, sky grayed.)
The answer is being written as we sleep on Harlow's Meadow.
Time wasted, slippery.
I fell again:
He who once arrived starboard now returns to the shore.
''Eleven miles ahead''
he knew I was already half-a-mile away from the harbor.
