An Egg Island Equinox

There is no radical shift of light

or redwings calling areas of marsh

their territories yet, nor plovers

probing for copepods. Only a yellow

front-end loader laying out a new berm

on the beach, from tubes too heavy

to be called hoses, its audience one man

and his protesting dog. No frosted

wedding cake on tour, no Cap’n

Beauregard hailing us from

the Texas deck, no Texas deck,

just an unshaven crew launching zodiacs

from the county dredge, its twin stacks

staining itself and the air with smoke,

as battered an emblem of hope as any other.

So spring comes to Egg Island, squealing

and unwilling. Sulfur and diesel,

flywheel, gear and grind until one morning

the equinox dawns and silences

the whole shebang.