Even this old sailor is tired of water.
Down from his lofty perch, sadly
pecking his way through soggy grass,
he shakes off muddy clay clinging
to his claws. The black sheen of his coat
is dulled in drizzle this moist morning
when all earth seems compromised,
its texture mushy, its color blanding
to gray. His cloudy, downcast eyes
betray his limitations, while a fateful
sea rises, drenching, saturating us
with mortality – his cocky voice now
quiet. This is no time for crowing.