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by Alfred Corn
Once a day the rocks, with little warning- not much looked for even by the spruce and fir ever at attention above- fetch up on these tidal flats and bars. Large. crate-like rocks, wrapped in kelp; umber to claret to olivegreen of scalloped marbling. . . . Not far along the path of obstacles and stepping stones considered, fluid skeins of bladder wrack2 lie tufted over the mussel shoals- the seabed black as a shag's neck, a half-acre coalfield, but alive. Recklessly multiple, myriads3 compact, the small airtight coffers (in chipped enamel4) are starred over with bonelike barnacles that crackle and simmer throughout the trek5, gravel-crepitant underfoot. Evening comes now not with the Evening Star, but with a breathing fog. And fog is the element here, a new term, vast by indefinition, a vagrant6 damping of the deep tones of skies and bars and sea. Sand, mud, sand, rock; one jagged pool basining a water invisible except as quick trembles over algal weed-itself half-absent, a virid gel. Walking means to lose the way in fog, the eye drawn7 out to a farther point, a dark graph on the faint blue inlet watershine; out to where a heron stands, stationing its sharp silhouette8 against the fogbright dusk. Then, not to be approached, lifts off and rows upward, up, up, a flexible embracing-forward on the air, rising out of view behind an opaque9 expanse of calcium10 flame. The great kelp-dripping rocks, lost in thought and dematerializing with the gray hour, release, indelibly, their pent-up contents. -Even the scattered12 feathers here are petrified13, limewhite blades and stony14 down. The sky, from eastward, deepens with the dawning insight as the seas begin to rise, the flats slide away, the hulls bear off the ground, and the eye alien to so self-sufficing a tidal system turns and takes up how to retrace the steps that brought it there 点击收听单词发音
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