6 The Pelican-watcher (1) Dusk under fog; and under fog a mist Grays out the view three hundred yards off shore; Ocean, though wind’s no harder than before, Smashes and roars where it had slapped and hissed All week long; beach may be at its ugliest Heaped up with kelp torn from the ocean floor, Huge clots and strings of it, yellowy brown, and more Comes heaving and sprawling in on every crest. Few birds. It’s townsfolk out for the spectacle And hundreds of surfers: black torsos holding still As tree stumps in the troughs, awaiting the right one. No pelicans. I miss them, on my run. Then, five of them! infixing their reflection In the wave’s wall they fly along to perfection. 13