Buffleheads

Indelible ones,
monarchs of the jetty
preening above gas-sheen
and rock-shadow,
impervious to squall
and small as quail,
we place our awe in
the aerodynamic
lit-fuse panic you
embody over the waves,
your mirrored selves
spiriting underneath
while reality fumes,
pacing in place,
annotating migration
as a series of stops:
shore to wave to shore,
a lifelong Morse code
with no real message
in your wings, just
that you were here, 
then there—and there,
intent in-between
on ordinary grace.