The Church of Concentric Circles

Later the harbor will fill with clatter,
chatter. At dawn I walk to languid water:
magnifier of flecked stones, bowl of rose
clouds. The cove sleeps, dreaming what coves
dream—of a world with no boats knifing
the tide, no human voices barreling shore
to shore, no gunshots from the hunt club.
Quiet and sunlight are all water wants.

In the shallows, hundreds of infant fish stream
from nurseries. Here and there, the exhalations
of their tiny gills prick the surface. Concentric
circles radiate in waves. Like prayer, horizon
rises to roofless blue. Inhaling the incense
of thick salt air, Cove, I say. Love.