Two Black Seabirds

The large black bird dips its wings
and plunges down to still water.
Under the surface, it is a kingfisher.
Below sun soaked inlet waters, it disappears,
for a moment, into the world of the sea.
The ripple moves in strange circles to the shore.
The swans drift gracefully upstream.
The ducks paddle away in quacking circles.
The seagulls circle overhead for shells.
The gregarious geese gather for arched flight paths away.
The solitary great white heron watches from the reeds.
The cormorant has his way.
He feeds from underneath the surface of things.
On the pylon of the old mill, he shakes marsh water
from his saturated black wings.
Another blackbird like him eyes him there.
He keeps watch of him, his wet companion.
He is sentinel, dry, and still.
The wet bird wiggles and drips and flaps.
He is happy with the fish swimming down his throat.
The sun warms the feathers from the plunge and dive.
Two black seabirds perch on pylons in the salt marsh.
One wet, one dry.
One a statue, one a scavenger.
Eyes of the birds forward, upward or downward,
searching high blue sky above or dead set on dark water moving below. 

Beads of water dripping down old wooden mill logs
and back into the tidal waters surging past them forever.
Two birds, preparing for the next dive
underneath the surface of things.