The wind scrubbing it, the bay
is like a field of green grass
and the white seagulls afloat
in the hackling of the green bay
are like white flowers blooming
in the field,
for they are white
and come there, and are still
a while, and leave, and leaving
leave no sign they ever were there.
Green in no memorial to white.
There’s danger in it. They fly
beyond idea till they come back.
—Wendell Berry
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