John Grey


The egret steps gingerly
like it’s avoiding hot coals.
But its mission takes it
wading through six inches of water,
the cool edge of a pond.

Then it stops suddenly,
launches its beak like a javelin
at the water’s surface,
then flings its long neck backward
as it downs a silver fish.

These are the laws of nature:

1/ The egret, head held high,
feathers fluttering white,
routinely catches the eye.
2/ There is no percentage
in a poem about a silver fish.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. He has recently been published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty, with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.

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