These are my own crows in a mechanical flap;
my geese in ragged Vs--more Ws or Ys--
honking abysmally to one another;

my salt marsh smelling of vomit
at low tide, grown with tiny plants
the color of rust; my oak leaves

imitating rain with their eczematic rustle;
my stone-scabbed beach impounded
peu à peu by the sea; my soft low cliffs

crumbling their beach huts to the northeaster;
my big skies you can see coming a mile away;
my jellyfish that you trod on in your sensible shoes.