On our daily walk, we find a snow goose egg
that wasn’t there before.
Wings beat the sunset on still water,
beaks tear at grass. Antelope settle
beneath the Russian Olives.
I teach my daughter about the sandpiper,
how it leads us from its nest. She shows me
how to fill pockets with pebbles from the shore,
right before she falls in. One moment
she is sinking; in the next, she can swim.
A pelican blends his brown body into the cut
bank dirt nearby, both he and my son
never blinked, never doubted
she would survive. If you let all your air out,
my son tells me, and then dive to the bottom
of the pond you can stay there, spread eagle,
without floating to the top. He has my
hazel eyes. I wish mine had his sparkle
as he tells me all it takes is knowing
you can surface when you want.
My friend in Michigan built a bridge
across a backyard creek that he can jump.
He admits in midnight mail, the older
we get, the harder it is to leap.