Mother Carey's Hen

David Yezzi

There are days I don’t think about the sea;

             weeks wash by in fact,

then a shearwater—or some such—flutters by

on the salt flats fanning out in my mind’s eye,

reflected there, a shimmering reverie,

                            recalling the pact

I once made (and renew today) to hold

             to a higher altitude.

But note the difference between this bird

and me: a slight disruption or harsh word

and I crash, folded seaward, letting cold

                            life intrude;

whereas the petrel, mindless of such height,

             scales each watery hill

that rises up, adapting to the shape

of each impediment, each low escape

instinct in it, the scope of its flight

                            fitted to its will.