There, where I always stop
and splash with river water
before the last push to the top,

I saw, flecked with the canopy’s
cracked shade, a flash
of jade, a swoop and freeze

of kingfisher—moving though still—
land on a branch,
until the weird roach in its bill

squirmed out and fell;
whereat, this filigree of air,
faster than I can tell,

but full of nonchalance—
as if more difficulty
is what mastery wants—

swooped languorously
down, three dusk-green vortexes
lingering briefly

like tattoos on air,
then paused under the bug,
as if with years to spare,

recaught it, let its wings’ shears
counterslice around, or rather
locked the notches of their gears

into the world, then wheeled
back up to the applause
of leaves, and there—concealed,

and reconciled, it seemed,
to flesh—enjoyed its meal.
Its wet head steamed.

I breathed. It left its stoop,
and though I hadn’t seen
its wingtip, in that swoop,

licking the river’s brim,
I saw now, as it flew,
bright feather-drip, dim

circles in the stream below,
ellipses where a mirror-world
shivered in afterglow.