The Cormorant Mimes Letters

He kinks his neck into an S 
To fly.   
He produces no oil
To keep his feathers dry.  
He perches on a driftwood log, 
To lift this wings into Vs,
Inverted.  Perhaps an obtuse M—
To drip dry in air & sun.  
His wingspan taunts us as curtain rods to robes,
Umbrellas opened indoors.
His bill hooks to a J
To grab fish.  
In Latin, he’s corvus marinus.  Sea crow.  
See, crow, you lose.  Hang over Milton’s garden
And wisp off 
Like a drift of smoke.