Starved

Just one dipper would be enough perhaps,

doused and prodding into the cold wet

underworld. A bird my family's never known

at work in its shaded stream of simple feeding.

What begins as moving shadow or flickered dark,

is realized in an act so crisp and lasting,

the end result is being satisfied.

Once I watched a dipper feed in rain, all adazzle

and yet instilled with calm. The drops hit ground,

bounced back, the dipper dipped,

the regulated knee-bend in between,

the land living, and water lulling us along.

In this world made up of hunger and of seeking

a quiet luck to see a bird for what it is.