The pelican colony
has laid claim to a long muddy spit.
Prime real-estate - their plot,
supreme pebbled waterfront.
They have driven back the more plebeian
waterfowl,
who hunker well back,
bunkered in muddy wallows.
One patrician para-glides to join the flock,
air-braking by aid of paddled webbing;
breasting down graceful, then hip-rolling
to shore.
Amazing the precision
with which the chosen preen.
One crooks neck
in a tight twisted movement
reminiscent of an Olympic diving routine.
He tweaks out individual down-feathers
nibble-cleaning, surgeon-delicate,
then stretches neck tight - ballerina en-pointe.
The only serpentine left, now
is the crown and round of neck.
What? Elongating higher,
tauter, tighter?
The obsessive fellow must have cracked
every knuckled vertebrae
in neck and back
to tenderly comb fastidious -
as far as
pelicanly possible, that is.
Pit receiving attention now
as he half-lifts right wing, roll-on deodorising,
till toilet done, he wet-dog shakes
then snugly folds
down
a cooling iron.