It’s just a bird preserve, a tidal pond
across the street from Sparhawk Prep,
the sky a bolt of azure blue, the pond
a woven shantung silk, two benches
and no birds except some days
maybe a small white duck, a shy egret
and rarely but spectacularly, a great blue heron
swooping out from driftwood piled beneath the bank
his long grey beak a sharp cornet, his wings
a bobbing regiment like waves of Irish Infantry
still marching to Antietam.
The morning light reveals a sea
of pale pink lotuses, Buddha! The leaves
turn into palms the petals fold, and now
the birds are everywhere, my God,
their cries are everywhere!
