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Drea Art
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| In the Storm by Mary Oliver Some black ducks were shrugged up on the shore. It was snowing hard, from the east, and the sea was in disorder. Then some sanderlings, five inches long with beaks like wire, flew in, snowflakes on their backs, and settled in a row behind the ducks— whose backs were also covered with snow— so close they were all but touching, they were all but under the roof of the ducks’ tails, so the wind, pretty much, blew over them. They stayed that way, motionless, for maybe an hour, then the sanderlings, each a handful of feathers, shifted, and were blown away out over the water, which was still raging. But, somehow, they came back and again the ducks, like a feathered hedge, let them stoop there, and live. If someone you didn’t know told you this, as I am telling you this, would you believe it? Belief isn’t always easy. But this much I have learned, if not enough else— to live with my eyes open. I know what everyone wants is a miracle. This wasn’t a miracle. Unless, of course, kindness— as now and again some rare person has suggested— is a miracle. As surely it is. |
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