in which the submerged
bird is visible
as the ferns and mossy rocks beside it,
the fallen trees with their arching branches –
and my hope
that the bird will finish its rooting underwater
and rise.
There is only so long it can stay down.
It has to breathe. I am also
holding my breath, watching.
But when it lifts its head
the bird staring at me is not a heron.
It is not even a duck or a grebe.
It is an owl.
Dark holes in widening circles –
its eyes.