A Sighting

patience is the key.

it seeks,

long legs pull endlessly

through murk and mud,

its neck arched, prehistoric beak stretched

as if willing forward the entire body

step by step. slowly

it wades through ages until, finally,

it stops.

the s of its neck tightens into a tense curl,

pincer pointed, eyes flashing —

it strikes —

with a splash, its beak emerges;

an orange blur wriggles briefly between two bills

only to disappear in seconds

down down the long, feathered gullet.

it stands,

on two twigs emerging from dark depths,

their length doubled in the mirror below

it rises up to full height and flaps once, twice, thrice —

it soars

until a bare streak in the sky.

gone as quick as it came

to who knows where

who knows why.

 

the-herring

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