It finds the park first, and the trees
turn wavery and wet;
but all the extinguished traffic knows
that it will drown the steeples yet.
The battered houses, rows of brick,
are clear as quartz; the color thins
to amethyst, -the chimney-pots
and weather-vanes stick up like fins.
And slowly down the fluid streets
the cars and trolleys, goggle-eyed,
enamelled bright like gaping fish,
drift home on the suburban tide.
Along the airy upper beach
to the minutely glittering sky
two sand-pipers have stepped, and left
four star-prints high and dry.
Beyond the town, subaqueous,
the green hills change to green-mossed shells;
and at the church, to warn the ships above,
eight times they ring the bells.
= David Hoak