Thirteen Anhingas and a sturdy Brown Pelican perch in a cypress tree. The thinnest line separates water from sky.
I look into the photograph as if it were a mirror.
I have seen the snakebird sail flawless lakes. Sink below water to sideways-spear small fish. Serpentine necks gloss the surface of a presumed danger, in the place where water holds everything secret.
Weighted bones and flags of wet plumage. Oil slick, ink-bodies
scrawl verse across the sky—
The photographer notes a language. Stilled in the capture, the semblance of harsh, croaking calls. The caul of ensuing night entraps them.
Each bird: a point in the continuum, a tributary of exchanges extant in the Seen and Unseen.
And so it is with me.
© 2016 Clare L. Martin
*Renegade Writers prompted poem, from a February session held at the Lafayette Art Association Galleries, Lafayette, Louisiana and led by J.K. McDowell. The poem is an ekphrastic response to a photograph by Zeralda LaGrange.
One thought on “Behind Glass”
Love the last two stanzas (and the whole thing, really, but my eye is drawn to those last three lines).
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