
searching for good air,
it appears quietly above your head
from behind the lighthouse -
the feather-light bones, the heart, the keel -
everything's just locked in for a good flight;
it catches the uplift
& is gone -
a white cross
against the storm-black canvas of the sky
hightailing it for the border -
this incredible passage of swiftness
this arrow-straight flight of silence
over the waves
aimed at that point on the horizon
where the sky closes in
on the Pacific
& leaves it empty
as if the bird had never been.
It would make a good story -
the frantic running
over the tidal flats
through seals, birds
& rain
into the canoes
wedged in the rocks
then the capsize
into the cold waters
the patu falling
the blood
& broken wristband
streaming behind -
the patu sliding down
the swirling wall of kelp
through the last shafts of light
& settling into the sand
& Tangaroa's grip
& later
a reflection
in a facemask