Читать книгу Pacific Walkers - Nance Van Winckel - Страница 13

The osprey pecks a bit of blue plastic

into her nest of sticks. My brothers, barefoot,

stand in the cold brook

where the dogs are drinking.

We could drive into town. Someone

would sell us near-beer.

Someone would feed us waffles.

The boys argue, ankle-deep in muck.

When she shakes them out,

the fat bird’s wings make the sound of sheets

snapping in a gale. She hates us.

She spits down fish bones.