tide

Storms will tell; they can be trusted. On the sand the wind and high tide write bulletins of loss, imperfect shells, by smooth memorial of high-country trees, sea-weed, ripped bird, fine razor, ramshorn, cockleshell. Give us the news say the tall ascetics reading ten miles of beach over and...

Mindless, the tide insists that the body continue to move ever so slightly in the spot where it wedged on the rocks. The wear of water hasn't softened its sheer. Its wings, unbroken, stay tucked to its sides. And its webbed feet are stretched and spread as if sometime in the storm last night...