it’s as if angels had collected
on the lawn
— Susan Ludvigson
A chorus of whoops — litter or flock? —
sounds the marsh at six am.
Not dog, not fox, not goose or crane
— what can they be but angels,
the start of a parade. Yellow-crowned
herons stalk mudflats, a wren
rhapsodizes. Bread heels
crumbled across the deck, bloated
with yesterday’s downpours,
draw no takers larger than flies.
Fingers of land along the creek remain
unbuilt, places wild, still wooded
for lack of title, countless families
from generations back who knew
Mount Pleasant as Hobcaw & Shipyard,
slaves whose rooted kin retain
these lands where angels thrive
& sing, untaxed & unattended.
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