|Jan/Feb 2014 Poetry|
Image courtesy of British Library Photostream
Thirteen times I went to the edge
of the water. Once a day for
nearly two weeks. The white birds stood
indifferent to my comings
and unaware of my goings.
Once I took a photo of a
sunflower on the bank, not knowing
of a field of them just downstream.
Had I known, I might have gone so
far as to try to find a way
to snap one of the stalks down low
enough to obscure the fact of
the theft, the flower field being
hard against a one-strand wire fence.
As it was, I let the photo
be the stem and blooming of my
wish. That I would stay true to this
new resolve. That the river run
high enough to move the egrets
onto larger stones. That the one
in thought give way to the two in
words. In a field of words, their sound
a rush like wind past thick stalks, like
the flappings of wings uncounted.