Wading In
“Poor fish,
Mary Oliver, from her poem “The Swimmer”
poor flesh
you can never forget.”
The capricious river runs
in cycles and seasons—
sometimes clear and calm,
other times muddy or stained
with tannins that hide pleasures,
violence.
Like a long-legged egret
we wade in anyway
choiceless and determined
to find what we seek—
nourishment, refreshment,
something we might call love.
When the killer glides near,
we fail to see until the jaws close,
bullets fly.
Then we clutch for our young,
mourn, gather in strength
to hold all in our broken,
despairing hearts—
the dead, the grieving,
the one who killed.
