Momentous

A ten minute break.

A day washed clean
by early storms,
swept away with wind. Sitting
by the pond-- I watch.

One white heron
and a brown and white duck simply
stand. In the rapids,
fishing for the unlucky meal
swept into the current willy nilly
a fortuitious spot where the two ponds meet.

Yellow iris
cat
tail
last summer's scrubby wild bamboo
embroider
the bank.

Sleek. Beak slightly
open, its feathers ruffle,
crown flattens
in the wind.

Its black legs dipped in cold
spring runoff--

the wind speaks its own secrets.

The heron waits.

April 2, 2009--

***********************************************
At the Duck Pond, grateful for it.

I have this habit of writing poems on whatever is available to write. Sometimes this means a Wal Mart receipt, sometimes, especially, it means the covers (the blank white pages) of whatever book I am currently reading. This one is on the front blank white page of an old copy of Cold Mountain I'm reading. It was ten stolen moments while I waited to go pick up my son from school, and I like it. I am always grateful for those moments when something makes us turn off the radio & pay attention to the world.