By Lyn Lifshin
Pale salmon light,
9 degrees. Floor
tiles icy. Past
branches the
beaver’s gnawed
at the small hole
the heron waits,
deep in the water.
Sky goes apricot,
tangerine, rose.
Suddenly, a dive,
then the heron
with sun squirming
in his mouth, a
carp that looks a
third as big as he
is gulped, then
swallowed, orange
glittering wildly
like a flag or the
wave of someone
drowning
