The mountain rumbles, and the sky is still;
The tide still murmurs closer into shore.
A great seabird above us seems to fill
The sky all by itself. A creaky door
Somewhere behind us scrapes upon its hinge
As if in warning; children scream and play
Below, within the surf. The tall trees cringe
Before the non-existent wind, the gray
Sea-mud has ceased to wash ashore, and all
The artificial sounds of gas and oil
Seem to have ceased. A little heron's call
Goes on unanswered. Arthur Conan Doyle
Could not have scripted better mysteries;
And all of it intended just to tease.
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