a sub-dawn full of gray movement, full of leggy herons circling and circling above the docks, above the shipping pier and in boatlights circling, scattering at the sound of a foghorn and charlie watches he wants the farthest nest, nest building 56, nest with bones, jawbone and hambone and probone, bonelike rods and metal cables nestlike woven, concentric upon themselves, a sharp nest with no nestlings and one heron

but when he peers over the edge peers bones flings himself at the booming noise of a freighter at a hundred other herons and charlie huddles in the circle of bones, in the circle of feathers and rags and holds his nose, other chicks screaming, he wants to stuff them with rags and tell them to turn—

is it because I could not be perfect, or even perfect for you, because you could not remain searchless, breaking into hapless pieces every time you stood still?