Bri Bruce

South of Davenport



A gull rolling in the surf,

one gray, twisted wing

fallen limp

I shepherd the bird against oncoming waves;

and he settles, gives into me.



When I see there is nothing I can do

bright stain of blood on gray feathers

I set him down at the base of a sandstone cliff.

He does not struggle,

but rises slowly instead,

and toddles back to the sea.



Later, bending to wash the blood

from my hands, I think

there's something to be said

about the way an animal dies.



Several days later, I help a woman

pluck a battered loon from a tangle of seaweed,

cradle it in her jacket

bird tired from the foamy lick of waves.



I'm taking it to the Humane Society, she says,

the loon stiffening in her arms,

saving it from a death

awash with the driftwood, the trash,

the used needles,

wings outspread on dark sand.



