Postcard 139

The water moves down,
and because it moves together, it flows.
Every ripple is the power of some unseen thing, above as below.
Every swirl an unequal resistance. Still, it moves placid and smooth.
The morning clouds reflect.
A heron, great and blue, an egret, white, set themselves like caissons
along the east shore, hunting down in their own shadows.
The water only has depth straight beneath, in shadow.
Small flies in hordes waterskip erratic. The tension ennobles them.
It is an irritant to look upon, as if all skin can relate.
The slight breeze compels the clouds across the face of sky,
compels the cloud reflection, compels the water too.
The small hairs of my skin rise and join the leaves in sway.
Ants, of course persist. Countless things we cannot see:
retreat of silvering darkness from the face of the land,
ephemeral vanishing act of each drop of dew,
birdsong and birdsong and the subtle speak of sparrow fall.
And birdsong responds.
My mind too moves unseen, and I toss back a whistle.
A whistle too loud in chamber of head startles me.
The heron, the egret, irritable, take graceful wing,
move off and away like cats.
Their shadows too, leave unplumbed.
And the water moves clear, without volume.
The water moves unceasing,
turns blue against the sky