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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.


Submitted by Michael D. Harrell

Added: 2 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 4:36 PM | Viewed: 12060 times

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