The sun has yet to emerge

From sawtooth hills in the East

—dawn that changes

Night and the calm—

With unsettling light

On the High Sierra lake

And shoreline.

No cascade of clouds

In the folds of treetops,

No sign of afternoon storms

In the higher elevations.

Only four black coots

Flying in clumsy formation

Over the smooth impoundment.

In a labored flight,

And various cackles:

A measured Ka-ha ka-ha.

Head and crooked necks

Of iridescent plumage

Blacker than before dawn.

They settle abruptly

Shaking the stillness

Of the open water,

The lake’s uneven surface

A reflection of sky

And mountainside.

They dabble and dive

Taking-off in thin air,

A skittle and skim.

They are incarnations

In the disguise as birds.

Four black coots,

Souls in transition

Foretelling the seasons.