The Kingfisher
By Mary Oliver
The kingfisher rises out of the black wave
like a blue flower, in his beak
he carries a silver leaf. I think this is
the prettiest world--so long as you don't mind
a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life
that doesn't have its splash of happiness?
There are more fish than there are leaves
on a thousand trees, and anyway the kingfisher
wasn't born to think about it, or anything else.
When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the water
remains water--hunger is the only story
he has ever heard in his life that he could believe.
I don't say he's right. Neither
do I say he's wrong. Religiously he swallows the silver leaf
with its broken red river, and with a rough and easy cry
I couldn't rouse out of my thoughtful body
if my life depended on it, he swings back
over the bright sea to do the same thing, to do it
(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly.
--------
On Friday we had basement rehab people visiting, which aggravated the cats but represents progress toward getting the walls and floor redone. I also did a bunch of sorting of things to give away, picked up a freecycled dichroic glass pendant, and walked in the park, where it was chilly but very pretty.
We just watched White Noise on Netflix, and while I don't remember the book in detail, it seems pretty faithful and for the most part the cast is great (not a fan of Gerwig, Driver and Cheadle are terrific) and the exaggerated period details are very fun. Canal birds we saw at Great Falls last weekend:
No comments:
Post a Comment