Through the tidal marsh a stream
meanders, and on its sides, and the
mud flats nearby, boats lie - discarded
boats at all angles, abandoned,
paint peeling, boards cracked
and rotting, like ideas I used to have
but have now forgotten, thinking
of a new range of things.
Near them, by contrast,
a black-necked stilt pads
across the mud on his outsized legs,
each feather in place, and near him
an American avocet tests the mud
with the sharp tip of his long beak,
also neat, also operative,
his thin voice reedlike, tremulous.