Sandpipers

In the small territory and time
Between one wave and the next, they run
Down the beach and back, eating things
Which seem, conveniently for them,
To surface only when the sand gets wet.
Small, dapper birds, they make me think
Of commuters seen, say, in an early movie,
Where the rough screen wavers, where the light
Jerks and seems to rain; of clockwork dolls
Set going on the sidewalk, drawing a crowd
Beside the newsstand at five o'clock, their legs
Black toothpicks, their heads nodding at nothing.
But this comedy is based upon exact
Perceptions, and delicately balanced
Between starvation and the sea—
Though sometimes I have seen one slip and fall
From either the undertow or greed
And have to get up in the wave's open mouth,
Still eating. I have never seen
One caught; if necessary, he spreads his wings,
With the white stripe, and flutters rather than flies
Out to begin eating again at once.
Now they are over every outer beach,
Procrastinating steadily southward
In endlessly local comings and goings.

Whenever a flock of them takes flight
And flies with the beautiful unison
Of banners in the wind, they are
No longer funny. It is their courage,
Meaningless as the word is when compared
With their thoughtless precisions, that strikes
Me when I watch them hidden and revealed
Between two waves, lost in the sea's
Lost color as they distance me—flying
From winter already, while I
Am in August. When suddenly they turn
In unison, all their bellies shining
Like mirrors white with flashing signals
I cannot read, I wish them well.