Newell Shearwater

You are–

the dark speck flapping in the eye

of the sun,

the passing cloud over the ocean’s face,

white underbelly concealing talons,

wingtips shearing ocean tides.

You navigate the currents,

a partner to an ancient choreography

of a spinning globe, wind, sun

and moon. Where you dived for squid,

fishermen found yellowfin tuna.

Once a year you return to land

where your clumsy feet cannot walk,

to nesting burrows that hold your

single egg.

On a cool, cloud-filled night,

your fledgling will favor

the false flight path of white halogen

lining a football stadium

over the distant celestial guides

to the sea.

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