Culebra

Go, they call for you,

the roosters from the hill;

go, untie your moored vessel,

no longer to leave the flock unfed.

Nor to let their bawling mouths

disturb the others red combs

or saddle feathers. As they

rack their throats, busily pecking, while tilting an eye up to the sky.

For when the fields are picked,

and the tired fishermen,

with their dogs,

have gone home to rest,

you will find me waiting,

on the hillside.

For only then will the sounds

of the white gulls mew be heard,

or the brown doves coo~

high above, or

amongst the wild grass.

Then, you will see

the strips of moon~green,

and darkened blue;

a gentle rising and fall.

Come, again and again.