Tides

Lubec Channel, Maine

The tide goes out—a naked world’s revealed
between the hem of kelp and water’s edge.
The tide comes in and everything’s concealed.

The moon and earth take turns; both seize then yield
then seize again the waters. Page by page,
the tide goes out. A naked world’s revealed:

the broken shells, a jellyfish congealed
on salt−worn stones, the blue−black mussel beds.
The tide comes in and everything’s concealed

beneath the channel currents. Gray and teal
and indigo in ribbons swirl and wed.
The tide goes out—a naked world’s revealed

in dripping increments. Gulls pluck a meal
from rocks and pools that skirt West Quoddy Head.
The tide comes in and everything’s concealed

again. The cycle turns its daily wheel,
and waters never tire of being led.
The tide goes out—a naked world’s revealed;
the tide comes in and everything’s concealed.

Bully

The eagle is perched on his rock
at water’s edge for mere moments before
the crows come. Black−jacketed bad boys,
they seem sharpened by the blade−bright light
of sunrise painting the channel’s high tide in dazzle.

Compared to the crows, the eagle’s gigantic,
but when they start attacking, it’s confirmed:
he’s a juvenile—mottled, scruffy−feathered,
looking poor and put−upon by the sleek crows
who dive−bomb him, all angle.

The eagle reminds me of a giant boy,
six foot seventh−grader, one so accustomed
to abuse, fat and shabbily dressed, he has forgotten
or not yet realized his sheer size,
his talons, his raptor’s beak.

He could tear a crow in half, but instead ducks away,
tries to make himself smaller as the crows aim themselves
at him in calculated swoops. He stands his ground
for several minutes but is finally driven from the rock
and chased south along the kelp−lipped cobble beach.

I’m the stupid human, the one aiming two barrels of binocular
from the window, framing a world with ideas about injustice,
wanting reasons, taming the wild by twisting its arm into story,
tightening the vise of narrative, birthing the big, sad boy,
muscle−bound in metaphor.

We all know whose beach this really is.

Flight Distance

the amount of personal space a creature needs before feeling threatened

The juncos, sooty coal against the snow,
scatter like thrown stones
when I move past the window.

I’ve stepped into a circle
where none may trespass; I’ve tripped
the silent alarm. Their tiny hollow bones
are jazzed into flight by my shadow,
my heavy footfall, my prowler’s greedy eye.

The chickadees stay, startled only briefly
by the juncos’ explosive departure;
but a pair of cardinals one tree over
makes for the hills in a flutter of smoke and fire.

You’d think
the flamboyant jays would be brave,
but they flee, screeching.

I aim for stillness where I stand,
the way a creature sometimes freezes
in place, willing invisibility.

The wide−eyed titmouse alights
on the rim of the feeder.
I’m locked in place.

A gang of tarnished goldfinches.
I barely breathe—
draft nudging the drapes.

A nuthatch. Two juncos.
I’m gone.