The anhinga is spread on the bush
like a rag, drying its water-soaked
wings. It must have just gone under
for a fish, and now it takes
a long time in the sun, snaking
its neck to smooth and pick its oil-
less feathers, one by one. We get tired
of waiting to see it fly. In all
that time, a purple gallinule steps
from lily pad to lily pad, four turtles
drift underwater. Behind the anhinga lies
pa-hay-okee, the river of grass.
Haven’t you ever longed for preparations
to end? Did the anhinga ever actually
break the water? Sometimes even
the real world is a park where nothing
happens, but you think about what might
happen. You walk the paths, barely
able to contain your wish.
The animals turn away into their
peculiar shapes. This is what makes you
start telling lies, waving your hands
to illustrate, wagging your finger,
as you leave the anhinga for dead
with its hundreds of feathers.