Slow News Day

What could be so urgent,
this pelican outside my window at 3AM
grunting and clacking me awake –

Across the river, news of New York City
dimmed at this hour, building lights 
vague on the apron of water,

But hark – 150 years late –
Lincoln is shot!
Pelicans known for their slow roll,

Messages passed beak to beak
like parents feeding smelt
to their young,

Then off to Australia, riding spars
and rigging of boats, decades 
in the whaling grounds' widening gyre,

Storms – all hands lost – flying ashore
at Pitcairn Island,
listening to Fletcher Christian’s parrots

Squawk mutiny into the headlines.
Now all just white noise
to me, the sound of pelican feathers

taking flight, only blinking red and blue cop cars
transmitting some new violence
in morse code –

What news, what news?
I am as Lear, crazed
with scrambled signal –

I'm sorry if I must pass 
this slip of paper on to you
as you sleep.

For Shay’s Word Garden