In the dead calm before darkness near the shore
The loons are gathering, rippling blue-gray
As slow as driftwood, the long call of the gulls,
the scoters darkening, the breathlessly sighing
Wingbeats of goldeneyes across the marsh grass
Lifting the widgeons up in gold-streaked wedges
To take one way toward night against the mountains,
And the still loons, the solitary loons
Drifting together out into the bay,
The silent loons all floating toward sleep.