eight small pieces of whale fat, some feathers, the lens of a fish or squid’s eye, five smoothly worn bits of pumice
—from the stomach of one fork-tailed storm petrel
Summer nights in the Barrens
the northernmost islands in the archipelago
are raucous with hundreds of thousands of petrels
the luminous gray of nimbostratus clouds
calling and swooping over steep lush green slopes
Because forked-tailed storm petrels are philopatric
—home loving—returning to the same burrows and same mates
with whom they share the work of tending to a single chick
the baby a soft downy ball, a gray powder puff
musky sweet as motor oil
I want to write them into pleasant metaphors
Because they’re moon-guided and unphased by storms
I want to praise the way these birds
so clumsy on land, are nimble on the wing
buoyant ramblers that skim and patter
hovering on wave-made air
glancing over wave crest to wind shadow behind
arriving on land after the sun sets and leaving before sunrise
darkness being their defense against ravens, eagles, gulls
Only the brightest full moon keeps them from trading island for ocean
At sea they’re often drawn to lighthouse beams and to ships’ lights
where whalers and sealers would catch them
and holding the trembling bird,
warm in cold calloused hands
threaded wicks through their lithe bodies
to draw up oil and burn them as candles
leaving what metaphor, except
how briefly, brilliantly, burns each light