The Egret

molly almon

Before the rising yolk of sun

Is carried to the bottom step of heaven

And the fall of the moon

Into its wavy likeness,

The snowy egret prowls

The glass-cut current.

Eyes trained,

He takes silver by the mouth

–A fluid flurry

As though stealing

From a well

Soon to dry.

Then the marsh settles still.

Smooths and straightens

An aura of soft white.

Solitary, scrappy skinny–

No, that must hide.

Bit of yellow by the eye,

It must rise.

To dawn unbreakable

For all of one wiry body.