bufflehead

How is it lying in the quiet
the room dark and still but for breath
yours — mine — slipping between dream
the deep and waking — that breaking
the surface — that meeting — a dark little duck
whitecheeked and small waveformed body —
rises — feathers waterjeweled
lit as by sun by stars or moon
each alight she tosses her head back
and rises wings aflutter to webbed feet
finding footing on the ceaseless wavelets
beak moving joyful her song laughter
in the still room as she casts off
the gems that clutter her wings her tail
her little rounded breast — until
unencumbered by anything not her —
she settles back quiet into water and herself

O to be that dark bay swell
breathing tidewise in the quiet room
and let her dive in deep as she will

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