The Argument from Patience
Jack B. Bedell
The stillness of the lake when a dos-gris dives
spreads in all directions. The water’s surface
flattens into pure reflection, sky
stretches away from the tops of trees,
herons tuck their beaks underwing, and I wait.
I scan from reeds to horizon,
and wait. I hold my breath, squint
into the setting light for anything
to break into the air, with nothing
to do but wait. I know the bird’s not gone.
It’s just not here. I know it will come back
when its belly fills, maybe thirty yards
down the bank, but still here. This place
will find movement again. All waiting
must come to an end.