Him: a brackish lagoon,the sun a wire hyssopon my lips. He never walkedthis salt-coarse sandmy blistered feettrace their search on.                 * * *The only thirst here:mine. Sanderlings and dunlinsdrink the Atlantic, snortits brine, will soon breed summeragain in Hudson Bay.Unless I come too closeI am notof their world.                 * * *Like the least terns,he came north to Floridabruised in the crossing:everything that fliestakes off and landsin to the wind,that spiritus mundi—aloft, who knowswhat furies await.                 * * *A rare bird on this beach:a rufous fowl, adriftwith the tide. He did not flynor try to fly. I gave himone dry nighton a full stomach,carried himlight as ashes in another box.He had no name I knew.He did not livein any guidebook.I’ve watchedfor others since, intuitingbirds weren’t migrants oncebut grew into it, that balanceof need: to settle in lackor to go on lookingfor what isn’t there.