Olivaceous and grayish-white
Contours fixed in lemon-silk light
A precocial crane stands
Silently in pantomime, poised
And nervously nimble
In odorous pools, reflecting
More than any other scene
The world grown more lovely,
Pure like dead children.
One wet vireo eye shuts obscurely,
Opens, goldenly focuses,
Discursively sees swimming
Littleness in grass and weeds
Concealing caravans of movement
Flashing and scattering light
As feathers, small oblivious
Shapes left vacantly behind,
Like spotted pickerel paring
Imperceptibly away in rhythmic
Waves, private parts of a
World ended and not ended,
Centuries turned slick and flat,
Rogations hidden under river
Banks, evading metaphors deep
Along the muddy, alluvial bottom.
