I miss the crouch, if there is one,
the long legs bending
backwards, or the wings
making any motion whatever,
other than to spread,
the head and neck stretching slightly
upward or out.
All I see,
when I’m lucky, is the body
whole, lifting
off the water, around the bend,
banking, effortless,
towards the source
upstream.
Originally published in the anthology, Poetry of the Golden Generation, Volume IV, Kennesaw Statue University, 2008
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