The Pelican

 

                 The Pelican meditates, motionless,

                 His beak is buried in his chest.

                 Like the city dweller, in the midst of throngs,

                 He manages to remain aloof.

                 There is a majesty to his silence

                 (He chose from nestling, not to speak),

                 And therein lies the rub.

                 The seagulls bitterly complain,

                 Even as they steal his morsels.

                 The terns, meanly preen and snipe,

                 The sandpipers, the little darlings, twitter and distract,

                 Even the heron, tiptoes quietly behind his back.

                 Slowly, the Pelican lifts his beak,

                 His serene expression, exquisitely detached,

                 What is all the fuss about? It is all pre-ordained.

                 And having said enough,

                 Resumes his silent state.

 

  

                                                   Jack Mashman