Piping plovers swim on seafoam swells
as a young ornithologist perches 
on edge, toes digging into the damp sand 
beneath her yellow beach chair,
eyes trained on the water,
where birds bob on the waves, 
their gray heads, brows streaked with black,
rising and falling as they float in the roiling swirls, 
drifting away from shore, 
away from a tiny fledgling caught in the surf, 
her pulse quickening; surges 
wash over the feathered body, 
as he treads little webbed feet in the foam.
Alert, she rises, on the verge of flight,
fighting the urge to swoop in,
splash into the billows
to rescue the helpless creature, 
reminding herself the lessons she learned, 
the rules of conservation—
respect nature, leave wild animals alone.

Alone, the young plover tumbles, 
while rumbling waves rush ashore
where the breathless ornithologist awaits, watching,
arms outstretched, 
the image of the bird, deserted, 
imprinted on her heart, strings
of fear and love
tug her toward the fledgling 
as the flock floats farther out
among fragments of sunlight flickering on the surface.
Orange feet touch down in motion,
scampering, skimming in the shallows,
in from the tides to hide among rocks piled 
along the walkway at the edge of the sweeping stretch of sand.
Shouldn’t I save him if I can?

The fledgling ornithologist follows, searching,
scrambling among the stones
to find the abandoned chick, 
dwarfed between two rocks, like giant boulders;
impulsively, instinctively, she stoops, scooping,
cradling the tiny body in her palms, 
pulling the plover to her chest,
wrapping him in her flannel,
his stubby bill pecking at her skin 
like a suckling infant in her bosom nest.
If not for me, he would surely die.

She rushes toward the far side of the beach
where another flock of plovers frolics with abandon in the sea,
drifting into the deep, 
the abandoned one tucked inside her shirt,
compelling her to sprint after them, 
splashing through the churning water with her desperate plea—
Wait! Take him with you.

She releases the bird in the ripples,
too late, 
as onlookers look on,
as the others swim beyond
the rollers, rushing like tidal waves
over the fledgling, overwhelming,
as she stands by, helplessly, 
wishing she had left him in the rocks,
left well enough alone.
She knew the rules—
observe, don’t interfere—but she did it anyway,
took his life into her hands,
trying to help, and now
the helpless creature scuttles back to the sand, 
in the wide open, far from rocks, far from safety, 
his long, little legs patter
toward the tall grass, far,
near the edge of the beach.

He stops.
Exhausted, he rests,
no nest in sight,
too young for flight,
too weak to fight,
as she watches,
her heart wrenched with regret,
for she knew the rules— 
leave well enough alone—and the plover sits alone
until a young boy squeals, speeding forward
toward the little bird—
leave him alone—

The weary, frightened, fragile little bird
resumes his long journey
across the sweeping stretch of open sand—
he will surely die—
the boy chasing after,
as the ornithologist walks away,
salt stinging her eyes,
across the beach,
without looking back.