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Heron Totem
Up the long beach, a flock of sanderlings Will swoop past a ridge of ocean roaring near (Their white chests flashing), tilt and disappear, Or pelicans line up, dark, heavy things, And form one body with a dozen wings Approaching me head-on, or godwits flare Warm cinnamon wing-linings on the gray air When they veer off in the big flocks winter brings. I love them all, and most this homely one: Color of driftwood, among the bustlers, the wary Swervers, he leans inquiringly, and waits. Slow, frail, ungainly, set for the long run, Silent with hope, by nature solitary, He picks his spot, stands still, and concentrates.
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