by John Grey
Lusty, lustrous summer afternoon,
the pond air still,
the egret is even stiller
as it feigns a humble stalk with feet
while its keen eye surveys
the waters below.
Beak like an arrow
and the stealth of a spy –
it’s a bird whose form
is everything its function
could ask for.
I watch from the other shore
as it finally takes a step,
just the one,
but enough to open up
an entire new fishing ground.
And then it makes its move –
a plunge of head,
a minor splash,
a fling backward
of that neck,
and a fish glimpsed momentarily
in the egret’s jaws,
before it’s gulped down
that masterful, elongated throat.
Such is the law of the elegiac jungle.
The egret is a fish and blood ode.
The fish have no poetic champions.
About the Author:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.