Pelicans in December (J. Allyn Rosser)
One can’t help admiring
their rickety grace
and old-world feathers
like seasoned boardwalk planks.
They pass in silent pairs,
as if a long time ago
they had wearied of calling out.
The wind tips them, their
ungainly, light-brown weight,
into a prehistoric wobble,
wings’-end fingers stretching
from fingerless gloves,
necks slightly tucked and stiff,
peering forward and down,
like old couples arm in arm
on icy sidewalks, careful,
careful, mildly surprised
by how difficult it has become
to stay dignified and keep moving
even after the yelping gulls have gone;
even after the scattered sand,
and the quietly lodged complaints.
