By Karen McPherson
It’s not at first the wing. Just a startling
yellow hem on the tail
almost not seen against rocks
sun-deep in current, till flick!
a golden banding as if to illuminate
an intricate initial. Moments later
tawny silks, jet masquerade, unassuming
crest. Still of the wing only a
gentleman’s gloved hands
folded, demure. And that drop
of scarlet wax? I never do see it. Though now
they are two, feasting in the huckleberry.
Now in the morning glory vine now
among the cedars swift away.
Poet and translator Karen McPherson is the author of two books of poetry: Skein of Light (Airlie Press, 2014) and Sketching Elise (Finishing Line, 2012). Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals including Beloit Poetry Journal, Descant, Cider Press Review, Zoland, and Potomac Review. Her website is kmcphersonpoet.com.