This Time

Think if the first garden began along the sea:

ducks, cormorants, loons, terns navigating

from the north to be named in this place for

long neck or frightening cry, the quick dive,

the sudden attitude in wind, our slow progress

over the bridge from the mainland the untying

of the tongue. Adam never saw a bull thistle

in his life—or sea rocket or stinkhorn or beach

pennywort—the heron stabbing snakes, while Eve,

glistening with sweat, dreamt the long waters

of Calibogue Sound, even when Skull Creek

was veering east before any bridge threw its

shadow down. The tide bringing us this far

salty as blood. A froth. A whiteness. Pale eyes.

We’re pointing at the great blue heron gliding

full-length over the marsh, trailing its history

of crawling things that disdained the ground,

its shadow slicing the lagoon that separates

condo from house from shack, our sentences

falling apart. “Look! Look!” The heron gone.