Bri Bruce South of Davenport A gull rolling in the surf, one gray, twisted wing fallen limp I shepherd the bird against oncoming waves; and he settles, gives into me. When I see there is nothing I can do bright stain of blood on gray feathers I set him down at the base of a sandstone cliff. He does not struggle, but rises slowly instead, and toddles back to the sea. Later, bending to wash the blood from my hands, I think there's something to be said about the way an animal dies. Several days later, I help a woman pluck a battered loon from a tangle of seaweed, cradle it in her jacket bird tired from the foamy lick of waves. I'm taking it to the Humane Society, she says, the loon stiffening in her arms, saving it from a death awash with the driftwood, the trash, the used needles, wings outspread on dark sand.

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