It is said that marriage becomes a third character in a relationship.
The one I think of as an ibis.
The long curvature of its bill
plucks sorrow from mud.
Its long neck,
slender spoon of a beak
serves us freshly made chicken soup with greens.
White wings edged
with black like an elegant dress
skim the surface of the waters
with other marriage birds, such as the blue heron.
One night by accident, we shut the door on you, mid-flight.
Your wing cape bristled.
Beneath your favorite olive tree
I toss bird seed. Weeks go by. Or is it five days
when I spot you,
the white noise like a heartbeat.
We curve around our favorite reading couch
under the dining room window,
the one where the red Maple marbles our afternoons.
These days, I hear you
as part of the Pacific, its long tongues of salt,
the plumed head of each wave
hit with sand, crab droppings.
I pass through the stench: half-eaten
oysters that drop into a gull’s mouth;
pass the terse arguing among terns.
A sea lion sprawled on the wood pilings
bites the pelican’s beak who shakes him off.
I kneel to gather that odd bit of shell,
watch the crackled glass of sunlight on the water.
