She dips her bill in the rim of the sea.
Her beak is the ellipse of a world much
smaller than the far section of the sea's
circumference.
A curve enough to calculate the field's
circle and its heart of eggs in the cold grass.
All day while I scythed my territory
out of nettles, laid claim to my cant-ref,
she has cut her share of sky. Her song
bubbles long as a plane trail from her
savage mouth.
I clean the blade with newspaper. Dusk
blurs circle within circle till there's nothing left
but the egg pulsing in the dark against her ribs.
For each of us the possessed space contracts
to the nest's heat, the blood's small circuit...
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