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The Black Shag

Edward S. Sorenson

Sentry-like, on a jutting snag
    Out in the clear lagoon,
Vague and mystic, the old black shag
    Stands in the quiet noon.

Water-weed on his throbbing throat,
    Poised, with his pinions spread,
He is drying his glistening coat,
    Swaying his snake-like head.

Round a log, on the nearer bank,
    Relics of feastings grow—
Mussel-shells in the grasses rank,
    Dug from the mud below.

Though ungainly to look upon,
    Whether on wing or tree,
In the deep where his food is won
    Graceful and swift is he.

Head and neck and stiletto beak
    Straight as a shooting spear,
See him glide like an inky streak
    Over the marsh or mere.

Diving swift where the yabbies prowl,
    Chasing the finny kind,
Little in water, fish or fowl,
    Leaves the black shag behind.

Lover of lakes and the lonely crag,
    Greedy, alert and shy,
Hated of men is the old black shag,
    “Grating, and harsh” his cry:

So they say; yet I like to hear,
    Now in the quiet noon,
Cormorant calls that are quaint and clear
    Over the broad lagoon.

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