Now, in this waning of light,
I rock with the motion of morning;
In the cradle of all that is,
I'm lulled into half-sleep
By the lapping of water,
Cries of the sandpiper.
Water's my will, and my way,
And the spirit runs, intermittently,
In and out of the small waves,
Runs with the intrepid shorebirds -
How graceful the small before danger!
In the first of the moon,
All's a scattering.
A shining.
Theodore Roethke
1908-1963
