The kingfisher hurrahs from a branch above the river.
Under it’s feet is a fish that will swim no more,
That has its story, for another time perhaps.
Now it is the bird’s, pounding the fish then hulking it down its open beak…
Thought does not create the soul, not entirely, but it plays its part.
Meanwhile the bird is flashy body and the fish was flashy body and each
Fulfills what it is, remember little and imagines less.
And thus the day passes into darkness undamaged.
The fish, slippery and delicious,
The kingfisher, so quick, so blue.
Out on the river last night there were two kinds of fishers; the birds of which the blue racous Ringed Kingfisher streaks by and then the Amazona Kingfisher, green as emerald. Both loop in and out of and then over the water to low lying branches. Out on the water are also two of boat guides throwing lures into the bow lake of the Rupununi River, again and again, until at last they come up with two Peacock Bass which will be cooked in an outdoor kitchen for our dinner tonight.
Who am I to say that either fisher is wrong or not beautiful, though damage to flesh and rivers comes as does the darkness.
Swinging in the hammock under the sparking stars, a stomach content with delicious bass, I wonder how to live with nature, rightly, graciously, abundantly. If I had feathers, would these long nights be any easier?
What parts of your humanity do you cherish?