Anhinga

Out from the clouds, a monsoon is erupting.
She nests in the treetops. Still for now,
her dark-plumes flicker against the leaves.

She lingers for more than a minute.
Then suddenly, she flies into the shadows cast
by something larger. Lands on a floating leaf.

I imagine how a painter would take up a brush
and draw her outline with precise grace. Light and shadow.
Gentle flower, caressed by wind, opening its wings.

Where the fronds split into hairlike strands,
she dives beneath the surface with a great kick,
then moves past the visible layers.

The one who paints her—
perhaps now looks off beyond the portrait, to wait.
Palms sink down into water.

Nearby, on the wet sand, a poet singing:
“Anhinga, Anhinga, I was loved once
among those fronds that sway so gently.”