|White Pelicans--very rare, I'm told|
It was my job to carry the birds.I’d have them all pluckedby the time we got back to the car.On the walk out I’d lookfor puddles I’d missedand break them.
pluck birds efficiently, probably better than any boy, and she makes sure she fractures
every iced puddle she comes across. She is no softie; she knows anger. And that dramatizes, by
contrast, her softer filial affections as the rest of the poem develops, adding one cold complication
The season, of course, is winter; it almost has to be. So I've added Florida shore birds as balance.
|Roseate Spoonbill, flanked by White Ibises, in Synchronized Flea Biting|
[Blogspot is again fighting me on formatting above, after the quotation. Hope you can ignore it].