She takes the hill slowly, rises to the lake’s
rim, counts off the seconds the wood ducks
dip below the surface—twelve or thirteen,
their small lungs suspending breath. They
reappear, cluster, glide away in wavy lines.
Further up the trail the northern flicker
clings to a red cedar, dangles five feet
above the weave of her winter hat.
She stops to study this fist of muscle and air.
The bird’s claws clench the branch,
fans of soft foliage sway as beak
plunges into the spine of a seed cone.
Scouring for loose gravel, snags,
she ambles along the shore, shoulder cradled
in sling, knee braced. Blue herons
stalk the perimeter most mornings—
not today. Perhaps the birds have withdrawn
during her long absence, specters lifting
from bank, from high limbs. Yet she knows
they are there, living on—she’ll glimpse them
fishing near the marsh, their lightning beaks
clutching perch, ruffle of feathered chests.
She pictures the ducks under water,
hearts thrashing, lungs still, their hunger
for air and movement, recalls the inverted
flicker heedless of sky, fierce hold
on the cedar sprig, devouring seeds,
marrow, every fiber of cone.
