Gavia Stellata
Who calls to the dark?
Who, when the shadows
are converted to morning,
when light pours out, when
day is turned to darkness
once more, when dark
is on the face of the sea,
who dives down, who
brings back a speck
to build on? I do. I did.
Who is the smallest
and brightest
and speckled
with stars? I am.
All things that gather
to shine I bear on my back
I raise on my wings
in the black of the waters,
in the deep vault of space.
Who dips and dives?
Dense bones take me down.
Who rose with a twin,
with another, who breasted
the face of the night, who
stitched the belt of stars
in Orion? Who speeds
without drag: bill like an awl
and flattened tarsus, neatest
and fleetest in streamlined
propulsion? Who took
Arcturus like a morsel of light,
a pinch of snuff, returned
to the surface?
Who calls to the dark,
who calls to the wind on
the surface of the water?
Who prompts the others
to dip and rise? Eyes like
seeds of garnet. Lightest
and brightest: gavia stellata
the red-throated diver.
