Egret

although it was

as level

as anything

could be

it seemed

a thousand

black mirrors

were trying

to hold me;

I imagine

it was just part

of a swamp's

stickiness

and general

entrapment, 

why else

would I have enjoyed

so much

sinking

so deeply

into the mud,

imagining

what beautiful baskets

someone could make

from the rushes,

why else

would a bird

rise up

at just that moment

white and shining,

lover of swamps

with feathers like floss,

looking, 

though long-necked

and long winged,

like a basket

of flowers?

Grassy Pond, Which Really is a Swamp 

by Mary Oliver

Have a wonderfilled weekend all, wind beneath your wings!

xo Ro