The Guardians

From what galaxy have they come,
these guardians of the dusk, gathered
on the corners of the dock?

Twilight mutes the water, and they
stand on two corners, their dark elongated
bodies bearing robes to their feet, if they
have feet, their heads piercing the waning light.

And the boy between them, arms spread
like wings as he arcs before his dive, the
curve of his spine and bent knees ready to
propel him into rosy ripples, does not see
them, only craves the joy of a brief flight before
his plunge, like Icarus, into the patient sea.