from “South of White Rock, Lake Huron, July 1979”

We were throwing stones, being boys,
when I dared my cousin, older by two years,
to see if he could hit the seagull perched
out on the big rocks sticking out of the water.
He cocked back his arm as far as it could go
and threw, and we both watched the slate
cut through the summer air like a boomerang
we knew was not coming back. When it hit
the gull in its neck the bird folded in on itself,
falling into the water. We could not believe it.
Death and the rocks seemed so far from shore.
We waited and waded in when the waves washed
the dead bird in close enough for us to reach it.
It was white and limp and lighter than I expected.
Years later, our fathers both dead, I remember
that summer day, when we were young and stupid
kids. Too bad our fathers weren’t around to stop us.
We dug a hole deep in the sand, put death down in it.
Then covered it up, never talked about it. Until now.
Strange how birds have a way of taking us back
in time, through the years, wings cutting the wind,
the air, the blue skies above the lake, the silence.

Used with permission of Wayne State University Press. © 2021 by Peter Markus.