For the Brown Booby, wind is solid as ground.
Fast air molecules hold them in place; an invisible
plinth rewards the seabirds with an advantageous
vista of high tide. They are juvenile delinquents
testing gravity’s authority. They want to steal.
These hunters are sailors’ souls cruising Urangan’s
wooden pier, coveting the bream that bend light
like lipstick mirrors of a morning. The shorebirds
wear a yellow gloss around their bills. Undersides
are mottled cream & brown like a light fixture
where moths have died & form a shadowy base.
One folds its wings back like an umbrella closing
& punctures the sea in a neat dive. They conquer
the ocean too; scaling this liquid mountain.