Pelicans

85 Pelicans David Scott The piper nods at crab holes, ignorant To anything deeper and a tern plunks The ocean’s hardened surface because he can’t Mine a bigger fish with his light body. Ax-headed pelicans scour into view In squads as tight as riot cops or teams Of combines set to scrape the crop field clean. With piston-driven wings, they fly the waves And mow the brake with black ball bearing eyes. A squall of five bellies scuds the shoreline Then rises up to glean a glint off scales. One stalls on air and toughens wings into The crashing-angle for his accurate drop. His chest of air and chopping head slice The ruined water. Clubbed fish, too stunned to flee, Waits for him to scoop his meal away. He churns his slapping, ancient feet, regains The line and its mechanical attack. Their eyes roll over darkened seas and spark When deeper flashes break the plane that keeps The hunt for food from being food. The seasons turn On days with interlocking teeth. One wing’s tip Opens up the water for an instant. It closes with a groan toward the shore. ...