The Second Sunday of Christmas on Humboldt Bay
Is there anything more sacred
Than 300 curlews sleeping
In the mid-day winter sun?
On a sandbar they lie,
At the edge of the bay,
Their long, curved beaks,
Tucked under a wing,
A rising wind,
A rolling swell,
Now soaring high,
One flock dreaming.
Than 300 curlews sleeping
In the mid-day winter sun?
On a sandbar they lie,
At the edge of the bay,
Their long, curved beaks,
Tucked under a wing,
A rising wind,
A rolling swell,
Now soaring high,
One flock dreaming.
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