Estuary

by Mike Dillon

Sanderling’s wicker tracks in mud.
A breeze ticks the sedge that nearly hides
a rotting dory. Gull mew. Clack of clamshell
upon rocks dropped from a hovering height.
The quiet mixing place where salt water
meets fresh, its bits of seaweed and a rainbow trout.
Back of all — a silence that does not speak.