Walking through a nature preserve
like Wakodahatchee Wetlands you
must always keep a sharp eye.
The birds are everywhere, they are
unavoidable and even the alligators,
imagining themselves coy are
soon enough easily recognized,
snouts appear just above the surface
wary eyes scanning the shore.
Here you are also surrounded
by poems, but they are far more
able to hide, among the eggs
the wood stork carefully tends,
in the purple iridescence
of the gallinule, trailing behind
the uplifting wings of the great
blue heron as she lifts skyward,
and in the spray of feathers
the snowy egrets dangle always
drawing our eyes like a bride’s
diaphanous veil, but we, at
a loss for words in the midst
of all of this, cannot see them
awaiting us to give them flight
The herons don’t seem
even though their
mating season is over,
for the wood storks
have taken over the shrubs
on the island, their
babies endlessly describing
their wants and desires.
Even the anhinga hang
back, staring down,
knowing that soon enough
the little ones will fledge
and life in the wetlands
will return to normal.
It is incredibly frustrating that no matter how long I spend in discussion with the egret, he will tell me nothing of his life, of what it is like to be able to perch on long legs, and then take glorious flight. The limpkin will speak endlessly on this topic, but he really has nothing to say of any importance. Still, I’m not giving up hope, for a friend said that he had it on good authority from a passing wood stork that the egret is planning to write a tell all book, once he figures out how to use a computer.