WATCHING THE BRANT 

 GROW BIG. 



THE raw east wind is shiver-laden. 

 Fine grains of sand scurrying along 

 the frozen beach rattle into the ghastly 

 open mouth and out through the ragged 

 bones of the breeze-dried gurnard. A 

 song-sparrow flips for a moment into a 

 thrummed marsh elder and then falls into 

 the salty desiccated grass again and hides 

 himself away from a wind that askews his 

 tail and parts his soft feathers almost to 

 the place where his cheery song is con- 

 cealed. It is not time for him. He 

 helps make springtime but cannot do it 

 all alone. Wait, little one, we give you 

 credit. A herring-gull essays to give life 

 to the March morning by hovering in low 

 circles over the ruffling black channel 

 water, and then finds it more in keeping 



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