I Am Slightly Puffin

If I were a seabird
I would not be the elegant swan
nor the aloof gull
circling for crumbs.

I would be a puffin.

Compact.
Determined.
Dressed in what appears to be
formal wear
but is in fact
just my natural state.

Black and white
with a beak
far brighter
than anyone expects.

You see,
I look sensible at first glance —
all seriousness,
all study,
all “she reads books in quiet corners.”

And then I open my mouth.

Suddenly:
colour.
Comedy.
Precision-timed sarcasm.
A dramatic flap of tiny wings
for emphasis.

Like the puffin,
I am built for rough weather.
Short wings beating
faster than seems reasonable.
Feet planted on impossible cliffs.
Unbothered by wind
that would send others
into theatrical collapse.

I do not glide.
I propel.

And beneath the surface?
Oh.
You should see me swim.

Graceful.
Focused.
Capable of holding several small silver things
at once
without dropping a single one.

I burrow when I need rest.
I return to the same place
year after year.
Loyal to my chosen rocks.
Selective about my company.

And when I find joy?
It is not subtle.

It is full-body.
It is bright-beaked.
It is “I have spotted something wonderful!”
and I will not be quiet about it.

They say puffins look
slightly surprised
all the time.

That tracks.

Because I am still astonished
by colour.
By words.
By the way purple exists.
By the fact I survived storms
and kept my feathers.

I am not too much.

I am seabird specific.
Weather-trained.
Cliff-tested.
Absurdly cute.

I am slightly puffin.
And entirely at home
on the edge of wild things.         — Frost❄️