Fifty-seven winters I have perched on this coast, To watch the tide rise up Only to fall again. I gawk at you bipeds Gawking at me in awe, When my outstretched wings touch The distant horizon. I awaken instincts So long ago buried In your primeval past As I fly overhead And alight on the limb Of my waterfront home With a meal I just plucked From the bountiful surf. Ten long winters have passed Since our last brief visit. You finally return To renew our friendship When I am old and tired, And my beloved tree Has been forever lost To the higher high tides. Ocean barely provides, So my family moved To the distant mountains When all elders voted To leave this sacred coast And its unstable land To your biped brothers And their increasing rage. I hear a voice calling My return to its source And the last lonely flight I’ve long waited to make. Men and machines alike Must also walk this path When the whispering breeze Clearly calls them by name. There is much I could tell Of life along this coast, Its past and its future Before the sun goes home, But the wild surf requests One last feast to attend So I will wave goodbye Flying close overhead.