As if it were halfway home:
the red dogs the same
color as the beach, the swimmers
turning gold, the tops
of underwater mountains
forgiving hydrogen and grenades.
It's only a phase. The green
river full of ash quivers
like a bow; the winter swans
did not return this year, nor
did the silver swim flicks, minnow
towers swaddled in the haze.
IF more than half are called away
again, the other half will never
come home: paper cranes
folded into shallow paper graves.