I've had thoughts of you, dowitcher:
upturned beak, belly feathers tuffed.
And you also, bittern, a shade
of lovely, knobby-kneed, my whiskers
somewhere south and delicate.
Marbled Godwit, another you,
and yet coarser, trilling like turquoise,
a little furrowed brow in me.
Like a candlestick, sweet Ibis,
you stand waiting, water at my feet.
But it's you, Ruddy Turnstone.
It's you in quiet amber moon,
dear one, no song but in plumage.
I'm rapt with having you alone,
flightless. Sanctuary and cynosure.
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