As if lethal it’s called a “loon fallout”:
The migrating birds wing so high,
Their feathers grow heavy with ice
(Instinct won’t drive them a warmer route)
And they drop, too encumbered to fly.
Their backs are black, dotted like dice.
They aren’t able to walk on the ground.
Red eyes glare, fish-spearing beaks clack.
Their dusk-born two-note wails don’t sound.
If rescued (which they fight), taken back
To water, they’ll drown in a small pond.
They need a quarter mile and beyond,
Wings thrashing, feet running on water,
Or they’ll stall, and all flying will falter.
