The Pond Gulls
The Pond was drained,
revealing umpteen minnows;
they wriggle in the residual water
turning in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a water-rippling wind.
Large ocean-going gulls descend out of a troubled sky,
they walk among the writhing small fry
pluck out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.
Dark clouds loom foretelling a storm,
strange but the gulls do not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
the linger here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these unseasoned sprats,
while squalls ferment the Great Lakes
and bigger fish fly freely
through the cresting waves.
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