The following poem is by Warren Woessner, a birding enthusiast and bard who wanders the shorelines of the Island.


Pop wouldn’t touch the junk-shop souvenirs
but lined the dash with free samples
From where we went to fish:
a driftwood fork, chunks
of fossil coral, gray basalt
foamed with twisted holes.
I keep them in a drawer
with clip-on shades,
A Barlow knife, a lure.

Out looking for birds,
I walk the shore eyes down,
pass by limpets, glass shards,
skate eggs and tangled line.
Low sun glows through a scallop shell —
the hinge still flexes,
a scrap of meat sticks
where the muscle was.
I stop. The first charm
picks me out.