To The Birds Thrown AT Sea

Great Storms Above — Naught Else Outcompetes The Majesty Of The Weather — Morning Papers XXVII

Seize The Moment — Even In The Violent Storm; Come And See, And I Saw The Starkness Of Nature, By The Undertow Of The Sea — A Poem, A Piece It Was; Killing The Bird.

©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms

THE LAST PAPER:

There is I, patrolling the storm-laded shore, in my outfit, of red pants, black shirt, and dirty boots, betokening me with the appearance like a night watchman of the French Army, circa 1914; Oh, how wrong we were, to what we’ll be.

There I see it, the light coming down through the sunburst obscured by the mild clingers of clouds to its appearance, here on Earth, giving the far-off structures of humanity seem odd, almost as tho’ they were painted there, from another time — a layer by a strange dimension of light; opposed to the wreck and upsetting constant roll of the sea, akin in hue to Winslow Home’s palette — My, goodness gracious, you flummox me like few others!

Combing — combing — combing, when, suddenly, I gasp a mild scream as I come across a covered body cleaned out by the powers of the Ocean, the awful thought coming to mind: Hoping not to find the corpse of a Seal — The Mammalians must stick together, to damnation with the bird-kind — why the mass consumption of Chicken is so ubiquitous and never-questioned deeply! “‘Cause we’re hungry!” — Ta, G. Carlin, the second usage of your slick wit! — I must move on.

My accent fighting the heavy wind — the shouts of a mild Irish/Swedish tone echoing throughout the early autumn air; “Boss, we’ve found another one!” Is what I say after another mild scream of terror at the sight of the petty carnage.

A dead seabird covered by sand on its edges, remains motionless, almost if it had turned to stone, regurgitated up by the sea with its stripping tongue of force, by this current episode of stormy behavior that is racking the land. Remaining quiet, the moment is caught in this seemingly noisy scene — eyes closed, a wee fly on the lid, the feathers seeming more drab than when alive with each passing second, Poor knackered thing, I move on.

I counted four corpses — well, three corpses: A Razorbill, and two altogether Guillemots; the fourth, well, not so altogether… A decapitated Guillemot it is, no blood or gore, completely cleaned out by the same force that must’ve swept it asunder. The body, I have no clue where it must be, the trail of feathers leading away from the corpse, and the footprints of a certain hound, gave me confidence about Where it did end up — Oh, Boss, it must be gnarly!

Poor thing, all of them, but it is a way to go — however, the moment at the forefront of my thoughts, is the sobering notion of their bodies housing in the forcing waters stream, coming in through their once fulfilling nostrils, drowning them before being chucked around till they breached the boundaries of the captivating Ocean.

There is naught more terrific than the powers of the almighty storming Ocean!

[I say Ocean, it really is a Sea — separating me from the Continent and the Dutch]

Percolations — percolations — percolations, O!

Returning from this wee sojourn, stitching on the shingles, I cross over the dune that braces the grassy land from the violence of the sea, and I glimpse moving morsels, the little patrollers, their hounds leashed to the right hand, whilst the left is in the air, the face in pure terror as they hurtle away, all snuggly wrapped up in their water-proof coats, making them shuffle like the aforementioned swept-up birds.

But unlike the condition I arrived as, I am carrying a certain thing, of ‘Shuttling’ variety, I say, as I make a face at yer, that you couldn’t possibly hope to see.

So there is me, coming again, with a speculated expression castigated deeply on the features of my face, deciding whether or not I care — in the manner like a naughty child — about what the glancing eyes think about the cargo I am transporting in my right hand or not, or perhaps my outfit, or my cherry-red hair meshed around by the hands of the wind — Oh, you minx, you!

Trying not to encounter a hound, who possess the willing desire to harangue my most precious cargo! — Tho’, the gnarly expressions, often mixed with surprise, makes me wonder who’ll bite first.

But that is how you treat and watch the scientific anti-body in a community of the cheery throng! — my face falls flat on sarcasm — What could I do — what could I guess?

There is only me holding the only hard-piece of a disenfranchised Cuttlefish, a wee thing divorced from its squashy suit, so clean, glinting in sand!

Little do I care —little could I care, to spend my precious time with the bemusement of strangers; bless them, I say! Let them imagine about a wee lass in her sightseer outfit, in full autumnal garb.

So I march and march, with that curious feeling of what it was for Darwin, floating beyond the Grande Rivera Platte, juxtaposing in his mind, to the bounds of home, of this Victorian era to this imposition afforded by the great fossilisation of the deceased unknown.

Oh, God, what a feeling! —what monsters and fear of knowledge it must be for you, Darwin, far from home, venturing into the infinity of time, bone fragment by hard-earned bone fragment.

My scrumptious omission for today or whenever these words were unveiled on is: I prefer Invertebrates over the Vertebrate kinds. Even tho’ I said Mammalians must stick together, I don’t mean me, even in all my Mammalian gland glory.

Why? —’Cause I know how the Vertebrate came into being, by the fashions soaking in through happenstance, indifference and generational time, however, how a wee cuttlefish forms from this piece of cartilage, is far more bamboozling than the paintwork of a cherry Zebra.

Sorry Mate, luv yer still! All of yer — promise!

So, in all my madness and solitude, I am afforded too greatly with all these momentary surprises, this beach, this optical illusion it fools me with, brings me much, and soon I must move on from it —always moving, that is me.

It is one thing to return to the same spot and notice the flux of nature, the changing of lighting reflections, garnered by the temper of the weather, to the experiences felt by the safety of warm, comfy armchairs.

Go now, and seek what you must, but never forgetting there are others who live utterly unbeknownst to you, in a method unknown — whilst concurrently, they live without any foreknowledge of you. Remember that humbling space now. Ah, Brilliant!!

Ta-ta Now, till the next storm blows my way, whatever, whenever, even if the name so is Dutch over England, be that so. Ta-ta!

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