A single seabird calls,
distant in echoes,
slicing the leading edge of night,
begging dreams at anchor,
like light fog moving in
from nowhere.

This gray calm settles in about,
pervasive sways
like the womb,
like the warm belly
of the boat, and any cold
dreams are kept warm.

An icy slice of night
passes in quiet and a last illusion
falls to water; even ripples
are the hollow echoes
of a blue morning at anchor
on Penn Cove.

Silver water, flat as paper,
painted in a rose-quiet fury,
in pristine accord
with eastern clouds,
rolls out to welcome
a new mountain sun.

For now, dreams are all
washed down with
hot coffee and tobacco, stowed
with the anchor as the Cove yawns
and stretches; distant horns
and closer motors turn.

The quiet dreams do remain
with the Cove now awake,
and all the sheets, wet with dew,
ghosts of morning,
rise to greet it.

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