The Dipper

It was winter, near freezing,

I’d walked through a forest of firs

when I saw issue out of the waterfall

a solitary bird.

It lit on a damp rock,

and, as water swept stupidly on,

wrung from its own throat

supple, undammable song.

It isn’t mine to give.

I can’t coax this bird to my hand

that knows the depth of the river

yet sings of it on land.