52 PROPHET BIRDS 



Suddenly the rain came, like goose-shot 

 against the window, on the trees: the blast 

 tore at the thatch. All through the night 

 it continued until a gray dawn showed low 

 clouds going over like the canvas of ancient 

 galleons, windburst and tattered. 



The next morning tons of seaweed 

 deep-sea plant, too heaved and shuddered 

 in the rockpools, while a belt of oil 

 fuel lay on the sand with spars and planks. 

 Had there been a wreck somewhere ? No 

 one knew. Certainly it looked as though a 

 cargo had gone overboard, for from the head- 

 land one could see another black belt where 

 the walls of gray-green water toppled in foam. 



But the gulls ? They had gone inland, 

 right up the wide sandy estuary of the river. 

 How did they know, so many hours before, 

 that the storm was coming ? 



The more one thinks one knows of nature 

 the more open should be the mind of the 

 naturalist. I am learning, or should I say, 

 unlearning ? 



