Middle Fall

It was a reunion. It was holy differently again.
I would not find
such unbarren society,
such theater of revere.
The kingfisher in its pale-collared habit
had fewer places to hide
and flew wildly,
dodging leaves no longer there.
What was eaten
was spared. Exposure, delight’s face, faced
the interior out.
Flight made no bones
about magnificence. If the warbler
in vinesnag flaunted
its gift, why not
get down a little now & then,
really shake a wing.
The river does it forever.

Thorpe Moeckel
Middle Fall is reprinted from Making a Map of the River (Iris Press 2008).