Roseate Spoonbill Opens As The Peacock Poem by Bernard Henrie

I know that swans and herons open like regatta sails
castaway in beauty and heart-swelling diffidence,
but my eye rolls to a cousin, the Roseate Spoonbill
lying in the turquoise reed beds, fishing alone for hours,
its spatula-beak open and swishing back and forth
for Lacewing bugs and urine-pale crustaceans too small
for the human hand. Frogs and perch edge close, look up.
The Spoonbill wades deeper, legs rough as tobacco leaf,
eyes glassy like new coins. My dried bread is ignored,
the weather slowly changes and I can think of nothing to say.
A soft whir, two new birds arrive on stubby, clumsy wings.
They space evenly from each other, like men in a waiting room.
Their vigilance gives them a dour look and they appear dull,
but in their resolve, their tuneless sobriety, lipstick-smeared
coloring and pod-feet, regurgitation for babies, monogamy
and uncombed feathers I observe their polished work ethic,
their recondite longing that opens like a peacock's fan
and I find pleasure in Spoonbills that imperfectly look like me.