Stock-still, in perfect discipline,
beak like a saber, thighs as thin
as summer cattail reeds, he’s drawn
to faintest flash of scale or fin.
He’s mindful of all goings-on,
and spots a movement, whereupon
he strikes the dinner plate near shore.
His neck unbends. The fish is gone.
It slipped down whole. And now, once more,
he stands en garde, as if at war,
bearing his sword, a feathered knight,
for other things he’d love to gore.
Then off he flies through what will fight
whatever aims to reach a height
that even eagles seldom win,
and he is lost in cumu-light.
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(Appeared in Cahoodaloodaling.)
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