Crayfish Hunting
Some small, tucked thing darts
from under a turned stone
before the water can clear
the mud cloud I created
by disturbing that wet dust.
I am too big, hunched over
like an unbalanced heron,
my eyes unfocused to spot
movement, nothing defined
by edges: a contrary streak,
quicker than the current.
How unnatural I must seem,
in rubber boots and a wool coat,
to the wading birds, patiently
waiting for their turn in this stream.
Still, I must have some role
in the autumn afternoon,
my arms wet to the elbows,
reaching into this cold water
that has given birth to everything.