Читать книгу Still Working It Out - Brad Davis - Страница 13

She’s always here, the heron, tip-toeing

long shadows through tall grass

and over the spindly gray limbs that litter

the south end of the lake. I cannot

always navigate their tangle to observe

by kayak the slow technique

of the elegant bird, thin neck and head

poking spear-like at the rising moon

to swallow her quicksilver prey.

But I do not come here to see a bird hunt

or watch a moose forage or even one

pair of feasting waxwings dance on air.

I come out, reclined in yellow fiberglass,

to inhabit the instant of last light

suspended between the darkening sky

and water. I come here to remember

how small I am, how nearly

invisible toward midnight I become,

enfolded by the skin of my slender craft.

How I love to all but disappear

when the moon finally sets and what’s left

to burn inside this diminutive form

is the faint testimony of ancient stars.