black-winged birds frolic in the swampish pools.
The mangrove’s roots rise like reaching arms
from the lapping shallows, their propagules
dangling & whistling like hollow green chimes
over the creamy foam. The crowd of leaves
allows bars of the burnt evening’s light
to speckle bright lines of ivory
coral & shell, the argent scales
of schooling jacks under the pelicans.
Their spiny silvery dorsals mimic
small sails that billow & tuck & billow
their deaths an artful dance of wing & beak,
rust & gray, an eruption below depths.