Back behind tomorrow, where we will end,
hundreds of pelicans are pulled from oil,
slickered with the black skin they've just put on.
Hosed, preened, they may even survive a time.

Years I have watched the pelicans descend
over the gulf I've come to call my home.
When they're gone, can I name the light alone?

That arc they make when they dive for a fish-
how will I remember their bodies' descent
across the air? The arc of a rainbow,
then the ascent, bill full, then the sunset.

When I imagine, I see them all black.
Then I see black glide though the black water.