–After W.S. Merwin
The Yellowlegs skims the surface
of the creek. Polished by first light,
the water frees its liminal soul
from a veil of mist. It flies
wing tip-to-wing tip
with its self.
The Sandhill crane cranks its voice.
Ratchets its call to others
standing tall among the reeds,
their long necks just visible
among brown velvet bullrush clubs.
Their blushing cheeks, that red surprise
startles me!
Tall on their stilts, the wader and cranes
will linger spearing frogs, crunching crayfish,
prying open snails with needle beaks.
Until ice slides in, its cold skin
sealing the creek.
The birds will launch, retrace memory
between the tug of the moon
and the hum of the earth. Fly south.
Some will be blinded by glass towers
glowing like the frost moon.
Fall concussed and broken.
They will wade among their long
liquid shadows forever.