These birds cannot fly. Twitching
vestiges grieve what they cannot recall.
They gather together around the dark
blue hole in the whiteness, listening.
A force akin to fear, but whispering
through all their windstrafed days,
grips their peering brains:
Everything here is food. They bow
for a moment, reflect on the brief gift
of the water’s stillness. Holding
their collective breath, they dive.
Moonbound like Apollo,
their beaks cleave the airless cold.