Little Egret
Does it observe itself,
its moon-white form?
Like how the old masters
painted right into the architecture,
the bird has left encrustations
across the visible field.
What doesn’t calcify will burn
like a song. The bird is a gift
the panorama has granted itself,
& because it soars it blends
into the earth’s salt.
Across the river, the sky,
it has left a slender music.
Its song is white, finespun.
It is the same sky that fans it
that is textured with its flight.
The river has entered
into the dream of the bird.
The water, like the bank
it silvers, exists now in
a concentration of blue.
With its transience, it has
gestured its fullness.
Through the sky
the little egret skates,
until its image separates,
a whirl of unfinished wings.
It separates only
because it would resist
momentum to remain
complete.
Sophie Mollart was born in the U.K. and is currently based in Paris. Her writing is published in Fields, Litro, Primary Paper, Minor Literature(s), and others. She is currently at work on a book of essays.
Header photo by Orna, courtesy Pixabay.
