The Pigeon Guillemot

Odd, sooty children raise me
through morning shades with their seeking
and hiding along the wave-stilled beach,
whistling out their shrill, stretched necks.

Glissading down on stubby, white-specked wings,
sun-slipped from cliff and crevice,
they assemble for the chase, balance on driftwood
and squeal like a circus of pinched balloons.

Jesus walked. These fowl sprint, orange feet
splattering a rippled runway into flight.
They wobble among rocks, peek
from the chop and plumply pipe the weather

before lighting to their daily fish.
I turn to the verse of their wakes, mark the ink
of their plumes as they dive-saved
by each clownish foot.

 
by Derek Sheffield