I
Dawn on the Amazon. The sun wobbles
like a thick red caramel. Among the trees,
a fidgeting chorus of bright birds squawk
anthems of love, sunlight and trouble.
Wet ropes twisting into a chirpy screech
are parakeets. Toucans yap like dogs, and hawks
blurt loud kazoos, while doves swoon and gargle.
Although complexity excites the mind,
pattern rewards it: among the tangled sheen
of roots, river bank, dense trees, I find
the shape of a tawny Indian boy, teeth filed
to piranha points, fishing in muddy shoals
beneath the sun and birds, which do not mean
to be beautiful. They cannot help themselves.