Pelicans at the Weir, Saskatoon
by Jen Hadfield
[ poetry - july 04 ]
(for Ian Banks)
Don't you want to hum Tuxedo Junction
when they chug up to the weir?
- their vanilla slacks, their teetotal eggnog,
the bland grace of 1920s gangsters?
Night coming on, Venus up, and they hang on the roulette eddy,
tamping down fluff with beaks so long
it's like opening mail with an epée,
they skoosh water up to their armpits,
they cruise the narrow beam from your floodlight
that cuts a strip from the river as green, as straight
as nori. And then they dive, in unison.
Oh, Luck
- be a Lady!
