The Pond Gulls
The town pond was drained,
revealing minnows
wriggling in the residual water
they milled and turned
in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a rippling wind.
Large ocean-going gulls
descended out of a troubled sky,
they walked among the writhing small fry
plucked out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.
Dark clouds foretold a storm,
strange but the gulls did not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
they lingered here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these bitsy sprats,
while squalls fermented the Great Lakes
and much bigger fish flew unmolested
through those high cresting waves.
Little ponds it seems,
do not at all mirror
the courage of the free.
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