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.