A rather macabre thing, it is.  Did the bird lose it in a fight, an accident?  Is the bird dead?  All the quills are lined up there like teeth in a comb.  The shadow.  The sand, indifferent.  The human eye, puzzled, both repelled and attracted.

The ocean never fails to yield up its — treasures?  Its relics, its spoils, its fresh and not-so-fresh miracles.  Will this be washed out to sea, to reappear on some other sand?  Or be torn apart by the relentless tides, losing its structure and sense of source, its sculptural essence, its origins in use, its freedom of flight and protection?

Another sadness.