my Spanish is no good

the shifting breezes barely stirred the sodden flags;
the tide turned, to inch back toward the sea,
spilling yonder poplars upside down.
redwing blackbirds scritch,
a distant dopplered airhorn makes a crossing—
and from my spokes, a whisper…

…above all this floats something sonorous—
syllables, from a man, seated on the bank--
swarthy, stubbled,
hatted, hoodied,
hands flailing, grasping air,
like the gulls beyond his reach.

my Spanish is no good,
but did I catch some words?
“Madre de Dios,” or maybe not…

who else was there, to prove my ears wrong?
who else, beside the black robed cormorant?
who else, beside the sharp toed osprey?
who else, beside the silent river?