I find a common loon beached,
huffing, meters from the tide,

feathers nettled,
backward feet buried,
head wing-tucked,
like a tumbleweed
lingering by a root.

I toss her grapes, bits of canned tuna
whatever I can muster
to nurture her back
to the water toward flight,
away from my panicked,
flapping heart, 
but she squawks, lunges,
digs in like a glacier.

“This bird. It looks injured.
I need help
removing it.” I beg
the wildlife rescue.

“Leave it alone. It knows
where it is, put itself there
on purpose,
needs more time
to rest. It will
recover, will drag itself
through the sand and take off
from the water

when it’s ready.”