Over April's first sundown,
three grebes make ballet.

Three thornshadow beaks,
precise on a pinkening

stage, tracing old geometry
across seersucker water,

old patterns whose line
pins me, points out now

my sudden here. This instant,
to the sad brag jazz of geese

barking dark be-home-soons,
their only audience is me,

and nothing but waves
between us and cold Venus.