Bad habits persist:
The nail biting, the bickering.
Beside the sand trap
like a bull fighter’s cape
without the crimson lining,
the anhinga spreads his wings to dry,
black feathers
dramatic, but not beautiful:
a mourning crepe.
It looks uncomfortable
the way he had to hold his wings
up and back
like a child being told
to stand up straight.
Grace in the awkward gesture—
Walking along the grass
talking at cross purposes
Submerged bird, aka
Snakebird, Water turkey, American darter,
only his long thin beak
just above the surface, his plumage
not oiled, not waterproof:
waterlogged, he stays under a long time.
Bed left unmade,
running late, running out of money.
Like a picnic cloth held above the grass,
the wings lift,
like something about to happen
or that is always happening
or never quite does
Overeating, falling asleep
too early in the evenings.
These birds can be found
near standing water, by a canal,
beside a slash pine,
along the Naples city beach.
Severest drought in 20 years,
the fish-eater needs
water to dive into, needs to feed
at Lettuce Lake
in Corkscrew Swamp,
with dangerously low
water levels: to find his spot on the bank,
beside the royal ferns, near the Moon Vine,
the cantankerous green pond apples.
Doing too much too fast.
Not doing enough.
In a corner of my mind,
like the monk in a saffron robe I saw
at the self-serve gas pump last week,
the anhinga sits and dries his wings.
