by Colleen Keating

It is a new story this morning trekking
the sand dunes of Karagi Point. The air elated
by insistent flapping wings and constant chirping.

In past summers the air muted diving
to protect the young less with each migration
and tiny spotted shells cracked, broken, bedraggled,
with thin birds thousands of miles from home.

She sighs. Her distant gaze remembers
her own journey with its shrivelled air of rebuff
its sense of broken wings in those early years.

How joyful to compare her life today with
these wily birds in this new created sanctum
of welcome. Now at her feet, sand is firm.
Perhaps they were not so different, the birds
and her. She watches their pinned-back feathers,
small black-capped heads, spear on the wing

dive into the lake, some dart into the fenced
area with food dangling from their beak.
The sand wriggles alive with beige-coloured
chicks. Feeling foreign in an alien land
has changed. She marvels at their endurance.
Whispers some words of gratitude as hearts
thrum against the wind.