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.
