The three of us
My two kingfishers still haunt the pond—
today at noon in the bright sun and breeze
and perfect temperature
I’m sitting here by one of the gurgling brooks
dipping a French water-pen in the limpid crystal
and using it to write these lines
again watching the feathered couple
as they fly and sport athwart the water
so close
almost touching into its surface
Indeed there seems to be three of us—
for nearly an hour
I indolently observe and accompany them
as they dart and turn
and take their airy gambols
sometimes far up the creek
disappearing for a few moments
and then sure enough returning
to perform most of their flight
within sight of me
as if they knew I appreciated and absorbed
their vitality their spirituality their faithfulness
and the rapid vanishing delicate lines
of moving yet quiet electricity they draw for me
across the spread of the grass
the trees and the blue sky
while the brook babbles on and on
and the shadows of the boughs
dapple in the sunshine around me
and the cool west-by-nor’-west wind
faintly soughs
in the thick bushes and tree tops
Walt Whitman
(adapted from Specimen Days by John Lyons)