"Common Pipewort," a poem by Jim Tilley

White Pond, a place to come
and sit on an overturned boat
pulled up onshore and watch
the seagulls line up in the water,
every one beside two, except
at the ends. A bird just landing
finds a spot between two,
doesn’t take an end. The line
tends not to grow in length
once several have established
their positions. What type likes
the end and why are the rest
content to be in the middle?
I’ve asked the boat because it
witnesses more of this than I do.
It doesn’t respond. Just sit here
and keep pondering it seems
to suggest. But I can’t.

The water level is much lower
than it has been in years, prolonged
drought here on Cape Cod,
and now, with the receded shoreline,
I can walk along reclaimed beach,
around the entire pond if I so
desire, raising the question of
whether all the land down to
the waterline is private as many
homeowners claim with their
posted signs. I do walk along it
anyhow and notice millions of
tiny whitish flowers, each perched
atop a grassy stem like a pearl
on a string, and I think of that string
of white seagulls still out there on
the pond as a necklace of pearls.
Hundreds of these flowers clustered
together on the sands and thousands
of clusters on just the portion
of beach that I’ve already strolled.
The relevant app on my phone
tells me they’re common pipewort,
also known as northern or seven-
angled pipewort, but my favorite
is “hatpins,” having nothing
whatsoever to do with the species
name Eriocaulon Aquaticum,
for how often have you seen
an old woman wade into the water
fully clothed past her neck so only
her hatpin is clearly visible?
All year long, my Sunday School
teacher wore a woolen hat with
such a pin, and I was sure it was
capped with a precious pearl.

What we don’t need these days is
more drought, weatherwise or
metaphorically; instead, we need
more time spent contemplating
on the bottom of a boat at the edge
of a pond and more pearls atop
the stalks of daily news. We need
to take a different wind in our faces
when we choose to sit and think.
I need to realize that I don’t have to
solve the intriguing mystery of
those gulls always forming a line.