The first Port of Call is San Francisco for half a day to pick up more passengers. I got up at 6:30 to watch us come in past Point Reyes and under the Golden Gate Bridge. They were serving coffee and rolls on the deck.
Back on the ship, we manage to stay up in the Crow’s Nest, bringing our supper from the Lido so we didn’t have to go below decks and miss the departure which wasn’t till 6 after all.
We think of Whistler, our almost-year-old cockatiel at home with Tom and Mary. I wrote this in August when he had just nearly been killed by one of the Cooper’s Hawks nesting in our woods.
This small bird
an exotic, not belonging here
seeing the open door
sailed out
expecting perhaps a little change
of scene,
a bit of air and a new view?The hawk hit him so fast,
had been waiting
there
must have heard his voice
from inside
talking, unsuspecting.
It came from our left,
accurate and feathered
hungry and powerful.There was no waiting.
I rushed and roared,
hearing Whistler’s screams,
blended with my own.
Between us,
we must have seemed too much
to make a further fight
worthwhile.The small dappled
form was suddenly free,
indignant but unharmed
I saw. He walked across the gravel as though he’d only had a minor scrape, not been in the talons of a killer.
I remember roaring
once, rescuing a small Dougal,
(and Westie puppies
look juicy, very small)
from a raccoon
out the back door.I may have even
beaten a pan and
flapped my apron
that time.It doesn’t bear thinking
how it would have felt
if it had turned out
differently.