The Spirit of Matter


Small nesting box on spindly pole,
solitary and still. This dark shape
cast once against evening sky
once upon the green mirror of water.
Too perfect an image
for the fragile reality of July in America.
 
My feet whisper past
but cannot leave the dim remembered form.
Now I chance to see it unfold
changing from box to bird
as one squared corner unlocks— 
and everywhere phoenix breath is rising.
Soon scissors beak leads head up,
pulled, the small tube of its neck expands
into the infinity of this belief
and legs part
become separate
like once the waters of earth
withdrew
and cast us here to gaze.
Shore birds standing still as matter.