Ghost

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.