In the middle of the night my sisters dig out 

the pale birds graphed along the waterside 

and fix them to a willow. 

Relax, they say, it only gets worse. 

Last season’s nests collapse 

beneath our palms, as we kneel for the angel 

who bargained his way to Anchorage, exploded 

the moment he landed, and became a gull 

rounding the wharf like a conjurer.