A fall day's clear skies and
fair northing winds had set a scene
that from the eastern rise
of the great bridge
revealed a glimpse
of the bay's surface gleam,
a view which increased
with my ascent until
at the top of the span
the vast blue bay was there,
boated with countless sails,
like a watery field of white tents,
filling, tacking and gibing
over the powerboats' wakes,
a canvas stretched to the horizon,
the horizon that Emerson claims
the healthy eye demands.
Though on the westward descent,
the perspective changed,
the horizon receded, the view diminished
and the boats, their hulls down, their sails
small spikes of white, were vanishing,
and with them one of the season's final days.