Birds Guarding a Secret

The surf cries over its spilled milk
As the universal curve
Breaks into beads of words
Alive, deposited, still moving,
To chafe inside the wind
And perambulate into shapes
Before they migrate in lines of force
Back, if not home, to some stasis state
That never stays,
Exposing mirrors
And the double image of gulls
Who rise, half wind, half mind,
As if the sun doesn't want us to look
On what we are.