At the bottom of steep steps

that lead to the edge of an ocean

between a sandy cliff and the lapping tide

I see a red eye gleaming among the logs and silent stones

–silent until the tide teaches them to speak.

The eye belongs to a small bird we call Grebe

in drab plumage he struggles out of the sea he knows so well.

Still now below a beached and weathered log

silent, awkward and alone

on the cobbled clacking shore.

The shore of incessant

syncopated

chatter

between sea and stone.

Two of my kind walk by

Without noticing

the Grebe in drab plumage.

I move closer

an arm’s length away.

I look into that fierce red eye

and watch as his back

rises and falls

in short resigned breaths.

There is broken flesh below his wing

I am too timid to touch him

to carry him away

perhaps my touch would only make things worse.

I watch the water that is

endlessly rising and receding

chattering with rocks that do not care

If they live or die

because they will always be

alive in the tiny flecks of body

that make up plankton

and shell fish

and seals

and herring

and clams

and eagles

and uncertain men’s hands

and Grebes’ red eyes.

This grebe, on the edge

of the ocean he knows so well

an ocean that incessantly

speaks with the rocks

beneath his wounded wings

stares at the coming fog of that dark ocean

a death he may not fully grasp

and I sit stone still at the edge of the world

and look at these hands

and wait.