The dolphins are scattered around the bay,
arching sluggishly, like they’ve had their fill
of the mullet that are plentiful here in November.

We watch them from the wooden swing high
above the water. The balmy afternoon has cooled,
and I have slipped on a kimono jacket of glossy sapphire,
with cinnamon birds on golden branches.

The heavy-branched live oaks screen the lowering sun
but its light has dyed the bay a crystal turquoise,
and the heron at the end of the dock shines silver
as it bends and straightens its long neck.

It is Sunday, and tomorrow the trucks and crews
of the new development nearby will resume,
concrete mixers groaning, the hammering of roofers,
the haze of sand and dust, oil stains on the road.
They have worked hard through terrible summer heat,
and I do not resent others wanting homes.

It is just that every tree in the pine woods was sheared,
a noble stand of few colors, but it was enough to see
how the sun winked through their swaying emerald needles,
how the moonlight glazed the sandy track,
how another mystery remained untangled.