The wind brings the circus
to a lonesome town upstate,
and puffins to the Isle of May,
seagirt, desolate.
The wind brings spectators
by ferry to the docks.
Side by side like gravy boats
seals loll on the rocks.
The throng swipes their shoes
on a disinfectant mat,
running down the gangplank
to the puffins’ habitat.
The main ring is the breeding ground
where lies their single egg
circled with a constant cry
echoed off the crag.
They circle, circle, swoop, and dive,
coming back with silver sprats
like spiny roses in the teeth
of undefeated acrobats.
The comic masks they wear belie
the effort it must take
to migrate all their lives in search
of a decent windbreak.
Clown-bright lichen clothes the rocks,
sea campion froths in grass.
Here’s the roofless abbey
on a speck in the atlas.
This poem appears in the November 2026 print edition.
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