Some workshop or other.

I'lI look you up later in a Collins book of birds

You are not fooling anybody
and we know you cannot fly
from there, despite your showboating,
wingspanning the waves.

We watch you a while, cannot settle
on cormorant or shag, but know
you are trapped by your own feathers and the tide,
and there is nowhere near enough sun

to un-ink your blackness into greasy fluff.
The oystercatchers are wont to taunt
with pupeeps and legs ablur; they flee
dogs sent into waves for slaver-thick balls

but it is not dogs you fear, spreading your thin wings
high, chest tilted. I have you in my sights, record
you and your burnished fearlessness as equals
bright against a great grey sea.