He flies only to scurry along another

reach of surf where he

pricks the cold for prey smaller

than grains of prose. The freedom

to guess right is his autobiography, and as oracle

of the about-to-happen he prefers

the edges of day, dawn and sunset, and rainy hours

that never climb to noon.

He does not weary—his errands do not cease,

and his flight is a diary snapped open,

snapped shut, taking in no sweep

of mountain. Master of the hidden, witness

to the nameless, feasting on careers even

more unheralded than his own,

he cocks his wings

and darts with haphazard courage,

his virtuoso pause obvious to everyone

and secret.