Improvisation on "The Egret and the Dawn" by Dan Albergotti
"The small, bright fish that slowly move/ among the reeds and grasses near the shore/ receive the dawn slowly. The first light/ of the sun seeps into the water from above,/ giving shape to the ceiling of their world,/ defining the shadows of clouds, trees, dragonflies,/ and egrets."
The bright orange fish that swim beneath the waves let the living current bend their small, flexible bodies. Light filters through water, shining on algae, water-bugs, minnows, and spider-eggs. The barrier between wet and dry constantly shifts, forming high-water marks on the egret's still legs. The trees around house clouds and dragonflies, unleashing them especially in the early dawn. This is when silver light bleeds from the sky, barrier between atmosphere and empty breath, illuminating each eye, each wing, each individual floating speck of unknown science and ungraspable poetry. The world ceases its spinning for a moss-covered turtle coming up for a sip of oxygen. Poking a pointed, orange-striped head through the water's surface, she quickly submerses herself again, showing but a flash of hopscotch-shell before disappearing back into a dark, green pool.
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