A poem by Jack Hanson
“The people love my feathers,” the plover
Said to the prawn, perched on a wire fence
While the listener scuttled in the brine.
Had he not been so shallow, the prawn might
Have answered, but, things being as they are,
And the plover fenced in, all was quiet.
The red weeds were scattered along the shore
To make distinctions between the plover
And the prawn. The sky was clear and pious.
JACK HANSON is a contributor editor for Partisan.
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