The Right Stuff

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.

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