When I return and time permits
I shall write of these white nesting storks
with their large bulky twigged nests dangling atop
old cylinders of iron and wooded telegraph poles.
Their nursery lines the train track for miles and miles
across the spread of land that flattens wide towards the narrow sea.
Plucked straight from childhood stories
they stand erect with folded black backed wings
Their dark eyes speak of ancient secrets
their long red bills of treasured dreams;
and just before they outstretch fingers into glide
their vast wings beat to the rock of the train.