With the legs
of a dancer
and the throat
of a snake,
the egret picks its paces
atop the silt lake
Pausing, in places,
to hook a sharp head
as if trying to fathom
a voice from the dregs.
But no,
that's me
projecting my own,
for Autumn is homed
Bringing ghosts to the breeze
that blows from these trees
ghosts of regret,
and ghosts I can't see,
as the egret stabs Narcissus
straight in the eye
stunning the vibrating fish
with its lance
which it will keep there,
quiveringly,
before working it down
then chasing success
with a quick nip of brine
before finally, without guile,
stretching wide the white wings—
So soundlessly, sated,
a bird lights for the marsh,
leaving only the shadows
of angels behind.
