The Pelican

A poem inspired by a childhood memory of a pelican swept inland to my yard after a violent thunderstorm.

The Pelican

Storm-swept and bedraggled, she lifts her head and sweeps her massive bill side to side in wonder,

As if to ask where the arms of the wind have dropped her from their keeping.

Far from the baking sand and shushing waves.

Far from the broad flat leaves of the sea grapes.

She raises a wing, smoothing the troubled feathers into place. There, there.

High atop a foreign tree she sits. Icily still in the frozen sunlight.

Above the swaying pines with their relentless needles.

Above the little house where the child stands, watching.

A girl, holding the strong hand of her father’s, gazing up at the strange bird with the large brown eyes,

Who poses with wings awkwardly outstretched, waiting for the sun to dry them.

Waiting for her wings to remember their strength.

Waiting for the sun to light the path home once more.