bending over, with feathered
leaves grazing the muddy water I hang
under a smoky cloud. The ground
is a sponge, the day young. I move

left to ride, tracing an elongated striking
eight. A tangerine dragonfly skates on
it. He flitters and winks, and flies off
as the wind blows. Where will he

go? I will hover above sky
and water, hearing the loud belch
of the bullfrog, seeing the robust flight
of the geese.