Quarter past six...
The first Sunday afternoon in May
Down at the river’s stoney edge
I lie sprawled on a flat rock
Poaching in the blaze
Of the falling sun’s
Flare-out.
There is no current to speak of.
The water is low
Moving gradually...
Inaudibly passing by...
Only the voice of birds
Trilling high up in the trees.
The rustle of swallows and jays
Jumping through the crooked shrubbery.
The cliff sparrows dipping the glassine surface
For supper
Content in the simplicity
That their well-made mud-pot homes
Were but a few beats of the wing away.
The heat from the sky feeling good
On their spread feathers
As they glide around in circles above.
Recognizing for a passing moment
In their small bird brains
How much more fortunate they are
Than that poor ugly dead bastard
Sprawled out all stiff on a rock below
Soon to be food for the black vultures
And flies.
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