Tentacled Lagoon Worm
The estuary has its own tides
that arrange sand in pleats
and disturb mud for feet
of wading birds and bait diggers
who bend for lugworms, head down.
Both forget to look up
across brackish water; molten pewter
under light, aglow, evanescent, and miss nests
of song along quivering marshes
in their wild, sibylline voices.
I am carried above quavering reeds
that nurse fledgling spirits;
vulnerable and tender, but hidden well
beside harder shells of pincered beasts
and tube-dwelling tentacled lagoon worms.
Some of us are residents of the betweenness,
witnesses to each transition in the wash
over barnacled oyster beds
in the long push to be lost
in the salt of the sea.