It drags its broken wing like a bad divorce. God only knows how it's lasted so many weeks this way, the soar
far from its reach as requited love. It survives by staying close to the sea, the faithful webbing
of its feet all it can count on to flee the grasp of feral cats. The cruel winter wind
plasters its feathers to its breast, twisting nearly off its dangling wing scribbling on the beach
the undecipherable hieroglyphs of its destiny, its glaucous eyes unblinking, fixed on the rising tide
reaching toward it like a savior to wash sparklingly clean its agonizing slate of survival.