Kingfisher, with his swoop-glide stride
like his woodpecker brother,
with his paralyzing call,
he rules.
From the azure necklace
to the regal crest
he holds court at the pond
and the frogs freeze at his command
while he picks them off
one at a time
like barnyard chickens
waiting for their audience
with the Farmer.
Frogs living their lives the way serfs do:
keeping a low profile, eyes on the road,
blending in with the surrounding,
hiding dreams in a haystack,
or under a dusty old hempen hat.
Ready to die with those dreams never spoken
for better bodies than dreams be broken.
Mighty King, we are awed by your beauty
stunned by your song,
may you in your infinite mercy and wisdom
live long.
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