Pelican View
Salads and salmon done for,
we walk our restaurant guilt for extravagance
to pier's end, casting glances
casual against the fishing devotees
slanting poles into optimism,
yet drawn more to the symbiant birds
waiting only steps from the crew --
assorted old men, girls and boys --
who now and again wind a mackerel
over the spotted rail to writhe on the planking.
Some hands put the catch
quickly into pail or creel.
Some -- gulls and pelicans know --
toss the catch to the nearest bird,
or even appease winged waiters with bait.
Like slow-motion surf among rocks,
tourists amble to the edges of the pier,
watch the fisher folk,
then retreat,
coveting a touch of feathers.
The parallel waves of gulls and pelicans
wait near bait
till strangers step too close,
then waddle gingerly away, stopping
if the humans relent,
lofting -
wings slapping air in chagrin -
to light pole or roofridge
if the stranger insists
a step too near.
But for all the try-and-fly scenes
pier walkers waltz behind the fishing rank,
one quiet couple thrives,
sitting on a timber round
at the southwest edge of the pier.
Slowly, slowly, the pelican sidles
over to the boy's shoulder.
Slowly, slowly, the boy eases
his left hand from his casting rod
back to his lap, then up and over, and
gently strokes the back of his
companion's neck -- and the bird
allows, allows, allows
the soft fingering that years
of two-hour tourists
have vaguely hoped at
as they strode this rough wood.
One whispers,
"How can he do that?
They always fly away!"
Slowly, slowly, the boy eases
his left hand over and down
below the log and, slowly,
slowly brings back up a six-inch smelt.
Slowly the pelican stretches and takes
the fish down the gullet,
then settles a step closer to the boy.
Onshore breeze murmurs harbor cooling.
Tourist eyes pass the pair in faint envy,
and boy and bird watch dusk wrinkle on the sea.
R. S. Carlson