Poetry waits,
a blue heron
standing still
to spear
a minnow.

Poetry dives
repeatedly,
a hooded merganser
who pops up
with a shiner
sideways
in her beak.

Poetry skitters,
a loon
paddling furiously
across the lake
for takeoff.

Poetry plunges,
a belted kingfisher
searching the shallows
for a little fish.

Poetry perches,
a red-tailed hawk
in a pine tree
looking for death
by the side of the highway.

Poetry dabbles,
a mallard
with its rear
up in the air
as it searches the pond
for a green meal.

Poetry nests,
two green herons
building their shelter
one twig at a time.

Poetry persists,
a pileated woodpecker
jabbing its beak
probing for insects.

Poetry hides away,
the ivory-billed woodpecker
deep in the Arkansas swamps
eluding all photos, rifles,
and birders
filling out their life lists.

Poetry tosses up “the thing with feathers”
soaring above us
on a cold dawn
as we wait for snow
that is about to fall
and cool our overheated existence.