Shorebirds

by Jerica Taylor

We meet at the shore at dawn. The dirt 

parking lot is draped in navy black 

and I can’t yet see the path to the west.

The sounds of shorebirds are waves 

and wings. The bubbles of air under 

the low tide, sand piper toes. I wanted 

to know you gradually but I talked

too much. I wanted to invite you 

to the honey-scented room where 

I was spending the chilly weekend

but I feared my eagerness would 

make promises my body couldn’t 

deliver. It’s so tiring to hurt. At the 

shoreline, I crouch to zoom in 

on an orange beak, a bickering. 

In the end, our intersection was 

momentary, the sun on feathers 

and pearlescent shells. Seafoam 

splashes over my boots, the water 

enveloping the soles, greedy, grasping.

Jerica Taylor is a non-binary neurodivergent queer cook, birder, and chicken herder. Their work has appeared in Postscript, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Feral Poetry, and perhappened. She lives with her wife and young daughter in Western Massachusetts. Twitter @jericatruly