The Dark Pelican

Her nest is crude (though on the shore it rests,
it rests on stone), a twiggy hole, the crib
from which she watches water as it crests

the seawall. Between the arching ribs
of rock around her home she spans her wings.
On the foggy screen of saltspray how they scribble.

Her neck a spliny thread stretched and swinging,
back she tilts her head to throat the fish
she'd kept in close, the fish she'd saved for evening.

A swish of flesh against the falling dish
of sunset, she has found her food the hard way;
she has cast herself head-first into her wishes

while in their circles lighter sisters sway
and wait together—they watch and drive the catch,
they snatch it up in turns; like dawn their days

are easy. But the one who works alone must patch
together what she can. (For friends there is no match).

Copyright © 2006 C.J. Sage All rights reserved
from The American Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission