Of sticks of driftwood from God knows where, rotting patches of shrimpers’ nets,
bits of the sea-stained Styrofoam of old floats, strands of mooring rope wrapping the down
of dead gulls and halves of dead crabs’ pincers and crumbling remnants of the corks
of voyaged bottles, she crafted her nest where she ruffles her feathers and sits,
oblivious to the mites marching through her plumes like battalions of a tiny Russian army,
the pliant webbing of her pouch tucked under her bill like the countless chins
of a corpulent diva basking in the sun, reveling in the fish-fragrant glory of her self.