By Eleanor Nadeau Fowler
I long had felt that God could not have planned
That spirits such as mine should thus adhere
To simple things. I pommeled restively
The shuttered doors that made my vista drear
And begged release. And then I caught the flash
Of wings as seagulls swerved above a plow.
Their feathers white against the moist dark soil,
They searched for worms and seemed content, somehow —
Though they were destined for exotic shores,
To fling their startled cries against the chill,
High masts of ships, to glide in alien winds —
And watching them, my heart grew strangely still.