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.