—Brendan Galvin
The only one
on this pond, all the rest
a flock composed of
her shadow and
her image on water
and, look, her other
shadow on sand
under water, away from
the black-leaf bottom
that’s like so many
more swallows
she appears
to arrive at the far
leaf-shadowed end
before she’s quite
left this end, revolving,
speeding the water,
her breeze notching
the chop to blue-black
wingtips, hurrying the pond
through its skinny
flume all morning.