Kingfisher*

The deep, golden moments of winter
fly like geese above a field.
The kingfisher nests below
where the lake stirs like a breathing beast.

Fish jumps, once, twice, in the crystal air,
slaps silver side on the trembling pool.

These are the days of stillness,
of the morning sun's radiant
benediction on the settled hills.

Beyond the bristling slopes
gray with naked branch and twig;
beyond the mountain cloaked in fog
it sleeps, that nameless peace,
beyond embrace or longing.

Halcyon—
blue-green, sun-glancing
(fire to fire, man to god!),
from lake to pathless sky—
See! There! The breathless
bell-beat of its wings.

In this silent march of days,
at the moment least propitious,
with sunlight's faintest glow
upon that gleaming back—
it shall rise, arch, and fall.

And man shall see and say
with a nod, "It is all."