As the Widow Wyile strokes
steadily toward the distant
beach like the frog she can be
she notices a sizable patch
of perfect pebble shapes
half the size of her fist
from this distance
brown tops
white bottoms
packed tight and breathing
as they rest in the morning sun 

Respectfully she turns herself
in the water fairly far from shore
relishes the invigorating cool
buoyancy of the sea as she bobs
and rests before her return
to the peopled beach

A short time later
the bird beach is vacated
the sky fills with a murmuration
of sandpipers who’ve taken wing
form fantastic sky ballet
shifting shapes that disappear
     then reappear
     in sparkling white
practice practice
preparation for perfection
their formidable late summer journey 

Week after week the ballet
expands its aerial repertoire
or perhaps that is merely a human
notion and there’s no practice needed
only being connected to frequency
magnetite magic 

that shimmer and swoosh sure
sends a shiver up the spine
on the lucky days the flock flashes
by right over her head
with an audible ever more
marvellous than swoosh