Before this breeze brings the fog,

already carrying the low moan

of opposing horns — north jetty, south jetty, north,

and three notes repeated

on the wind chime —

I stand near tulips

pink as the lining of a conch, the only music

a goldfinch in the burgeoning cherry,

like heralding the first tree, petals

finer than a newborn's eyelid, transient as breath.

Old sun chased the moon up this morning,

waning sliver insubstantial as rumor.

An inconceivable miracle, rock in orbit

revolving on the spindle of seasons—my part,

a witness, looking over my own shoulder.

Write that down.