Little hoopoe hopping the fiery marsh,
alight in the time of arrow-flocks,
boats broken up and damming the mouth.
A fool safe from sadness, O hoopoe,
long legs darting still through the
thickening water. Satisfied never ‘til the
convolutions are solved,
the attackers press on.
Little hoopoe, so dumb to preen
in wide day, so empty your head.
Careen hurt to my waiting lap, and
I will smooth feathers skewed by
barreling shaft, bandaging with wide-
made leaves abraded sections of skin.
Fan anew your proud fool head
in another country elsewhere; for
the marsh has been solved
and the water’s been smoked
from its former ways.
-2003
