Frogs hidden among reeds remain silent,
knowing they are delicacies.
Ducks dip and dive, clatter like tiles,
while geese honk as though racing
the autobahn, and gulls look down,
laugh raucously at it all. But the egret
does not move. She could be/might be
a nautical figurehead –
one of Neptune’s wooden angels
gazing into the future,
or a caryatid lifting the pediment
of sky. It’s imprinted, this patience,
this pose, as she anticipates
green speckled fish that venture near.
Balancing on one bowsprit leg,
she penetrates muck
in shimmering shallows;
tiny wavelets ruff her ankles
as she fixates on infinitesimal movement –
scryer gazing into obsidian –
beak a rapier. Elegant. Graceful.
S curved neck. Blizzard of feather.
Perhaps she simply feeds, though
she seems awaiting
some miraculous transformation.
Then, extending wide white wings,
she vanishes – ephemeral,
wisp of smoke amid cirrus.