Eight-toes, teetering
Saber unscabbarded,
Bellying spinnaker
Fast to a fence post,
Gape your black bill
In a squawk clean as kindling!
Off, with a smother
Of saw-toothed wingbeats,
My piebald jolly boat!
Surge hull down
Past the crest of the ridge
Where the wind breaks, breaks
All day like foam.

About the Author

Peter Davison was The Atlantic's poetry editor from 1974 to 2004.