He blends almost fully
into the pull of tide, a long
stretch of neck arched above folded wings.
He seems to glide backward
with all the patience and ease
of Jesus fishing for breakfast at dawn.
His gaze piercing the surface he is lost
in the ripple of migrating waters
only to appear again, stark
as a bone of driftwood against a dark eddy.
In this moment he strikes with such grace
that I desire to imagine his prey
doesn’t suffer; that it comes to him, willing
to die so beautifully.