In the Storm by Mary Oliver

In the Storm

Some black ducks

were shrugged up 

on the shore.

It was snowing

hard, from the east,

and the sea

was in disorder.

Then some sanderlings,

five inches long

with beaks like wire

flew in,

snowflakes on their backs,

and settled

in a row

behind the ducks -- 

whose backs were also

covered with snow --

so close

they were all but touching,

they were all but under

the roof of the ducks' tails,

so the wind, pretty much, 

blew over them.

They stayed that way, motionless, 

for maybe an hour, 

then the sanderlings,

each a handful of feathers,

shifted, and were blown away

out over the water

which was still raging.

But, somehow,

they came back

and again the ducks,

like a feathered hedge,

let them

crouch there, and live.

If someone you didn't know

told you this,

as I am telling you this, 

would you believe it?

Belief isn't always easy.

But this much I have learned --

if not enough else -- 

to live with my eyes open.

I know what everyone wants

is a miracle.

This wasn't a miracle.

Unless, of course, kindness -- 

as now and again

some rare person has suggested --

is a miracle.

As it surely is.