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They remember their milling off Montauk,

the churning waters of December off Amagansett

off Shinnecock

Their nations have known

the great Long Island mussel beds

generation after generation

They are coming back

the White-wings flashing banners

the Surf, head white fore and aft

They are coming

in flocks that are wedge-shaped.

in lines that are wavering.

in lines taut like freight trains

All down the flyway

Long Island beats in their blood