It’s been a month since the contractors poisoned the weed that
was choking our suburban lagoon. Still water, mats of black collapse
the shore is quiet. Usually by October the reed warblers would be
full-throated at their young: this our morning song, this an alarm trill this is how to hang a nest on two bent rushes just right. Next year
— maybe. The pelicans mooch about before departing.
An egret wades in the shallows, brilliant
like a tear in a curtain on a summer day.
Yellow eye, yellow blade strikes, catches nothing.
I want to make this bird into something —
in its leanness and pallor, a township starved then razed
or our kids trampling helter skelter through the garden.
Unmoved, the bird stabs again, brings up a string of muck.
It won’t mate this season; it’ll starve if it stays.
I’m thinking how hard it is to say anything cleanly, truly.
Then the real bird lifts, a slow loping climb
over lawns and picnic tables with a loud croaking call
that I couldn’t help but hear as disgust.
Image: An eastern great egret (ardea modesta) c/- David Clode at Unsplash, similar to the one so disappointed at our local lagoon.
pretty rafts interlinked
in nature’s arms race
this is the killer app.
Image: Coomaditchee, my local lagoon this morning, now being strangled by water hyacinth (Pontederia crassipes) Another invasive weed (this one originally from the Amazon) going crazy in a new environment, kicked along by recent flooding.
As I’m a little troubled, today’s musical offering is an old prog. rock favourite Close to the Edge by Yes (and Yes, they’re still touring and making music) (Yes for Youtubers)