Michael Day
Dunlin at Sunset

Turning on their dime-sized
brains, a hundred dunlin clap
cleanly off the mud and seize
the air. They flip and flash from

dark to white—flexibly rigid,
tightly flung—the snap of blinds.
Precision tailors, they split-rip
and scissor the blue afternoon

off the back of the valley sky.
Flip again unfurling a tape
to measure the sun’s long rays.
Flip again rolling out the

bolts of silk. Now flash and
start calling out color, shade,
tone, and hue. They are whir
and treadle, spool and bobbin,

sewing a pair of pink and gray
pajamas. The sleeves and legs
reach forever, and the tired
flock is relieved when a honking

vee of geese arrives to do
the ironing. Back on the mud,
the dunlin fold their scissors
across their backs, and

polish their needles. Some
become proud tonight and stand
on one leg. Even the earth is
slowing its momentum to linger.

And all the young fish in the
marsh pond school are kissing
the air, flapping their little
fins as fast as they can.

<< return to the Table of Contents for New Series #5: Summer 2018, Volume 3 Number 1