Least Terns at Beaver Creek

Mewling called me out of daydream,

halfway between the gas pump and the steel

wall of convenience mart. Surprised sky

unfurled the flock, a tumbled bag of jacks, cards

shuffled by an errant wind and let go. The black

wedge of wingtip, flipped against the white

beneath, creates a stripe against which words

may be concealed. One such word is history,

but I don't know what to think of it because

the birds are rolling into the curls

and breakers of air

above fresh-planted swells of soil,

the hill against the sky interring calm

as transept to migration of vowels or genes,

these determined words shouldering the climate

and eons into breeding frenzy.

There is no ocean near. The lake is lake in name only,

a reservoir in land drier than it knows. I am trawling

the home stretch for courage

and find it in these envelopes of warmth,

no larger than the pockets I search for keys,

cards, money to pay the clerk who stands waiting,

no doubt wondering why this regular is stalled,

stunned, and smiling to conspirators

parked somewhere overhead.