Elm branches gesture a warning to us

in the sign language of sea anemones

as ocean currents of air eddy around us,

floating a flotsam of leaves;

grass stalks, heedless, perform calisthenics

unsynchronized to the beat of a lone shutter

spanking the white clapboard behind us.

Shadows vulture-circle above us,

swooping over the light like an old drop cloth,

frayed at the edges, trailing wisps of unsewn strands

through the salt marsh sky. There is silence

for the space of a single deep breath,

then a distant moan of despair, a sudden weeping,

and a sound like the paper crackle of a discarded draft.