The shearwater’s moan doesn’t break against burrows now, but reaches the quick blood of a wingless rail. To walk as if sewn to yourself. Brought home, six rails lifted through the rough angled lid of their crate. To duck under green against what might cast darkness over its own. All shelter eaten, they skulk in their furious smoke. Frigatebirds, forked shadows, flank seven blots on a brown horizon: six scattered shapes and a crate. A moment’s contentment, a swallow, a sigh: The frigatebird draws its span to its eyes, eating an island down.