In the Storm
Some black ducks
were
shrugged up
on the shore.
It was snowing
hard, from the east,
and
the sea
was in disorder.
Then some sanderlings,
five inches long
with
beaks like wire,
flew in,
snowflakes on their backs,
and settled
in a
row
behind the ducks --
whose backs were also
covered with snow --
so
close
they were all but touching,
they were all but under
the roof of the duck's
tails,
so the wind, pretty much,
blew over them.
They stayed that way,
motionless,
for maybe an hour,
then
the sanderlings,
each a handful of feathers,
shifted, and were blown
away
out over the water
which
was still raging.
But, somehow,
they came back
and again the ducks,
like
a feathered hedge,
let them
crouch there, and live.
If someone you didn't
know
told you this,
as I am telling you this,
would you believe
it?
Belief isn't always
easy.
But this much I have learned --
if not enough else --
to live
with my eyes open.
I know what everyone
wants
is a miracle.
This wasn't a miracle.
Unless, of course, kindness
--
as now and again
some
rare person has suggested --
is a miracle.
As surely it is.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(Thirst)
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