As Plovers Go

raven

12 June 2016

When morning light touched
the muscular rocks
they appeared to flex,
playfully, showing off
their handsome cut.
The trees swooned
in the breeze.  Ravens
laughed (at the neurotic
spectacle of it).

A plover paced,
a rictus of nerves,
in the shadow of the raven’s laughter.
Between a raven and hawk
was the plover’s rock and a hard place.
in his obsessive defense of his nest,
against their appetites.

Then the light was teasing the rocks
to flex even more.
But the trees (self-conscious now,
because of the raven’s laughter)
no longer swooned. The plover
did not cease to pace.
Even the egret posed a threat.
And all along the light
kept waking up more of the world,
worrying the plover, even more.

I turned from this
ever-changing set piece,
to an older couple of scullers,
their measured strokes as though beating time
(at its own game)?, aureoles
of white circling their heads
the light was haloing.

They the raven did not mock.
And by then the rocks
had tired of showing off,
and had settled back
into just being handsome.
The older couple seemed
to center everything,
save the plover,
who paced like a worried accountant,

and I, who had to depart,
or be late for work.
I could not beat time
at its own game.
Yet I was still a part
of the luxurious morning
of fresh light, assured rocks,
and an in your face raven,
who I chose to believe had let alone
the family, plover.

Philip Kuepper
(14 April 2016)

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