There were seven of them in perfect formation,
pelicans swimming a sky blue as the lake below,
the black of their wings emphasizing their iridescence
as they glided overhead with effortless indifference
to any of us lucky enough to see them
fly innately in synchronization above where we were.

They owned the air with a nonchalance born of bird,
the sun an oblique angle they played with
in their turning, until at once, as one,
they dipped and dove and were suddenly seven
white pearls in a bracelet sliding down a wrist of sky,
skimming the blue folds of Green Bay this day in July.


© by Mike Orlock.
Used with the author's permission.