Thanksgiving on the Marsh

undulating waves of laughing diamonds,
bursting skyward
with the raucous whoops and cries of TV-Indian war parties
swirling in layers of orderly chaos
my ears filling
with the steady waterfall rush of legions of beating wings
stained by a setting sun
the hues of Conquistador dreams
shifting silently now to rose
now lavender
now purple.

Singing sweet silver feather knives
efface me
eroding my substance
now translucent
now transparent
Sputtering, swearing, now giggling at my hubris
restored to my flesh
a blundering gnat swims in my eye

Time and again I stand
with too much beauty
and the breath of Horace in my ear
"Tomorrow, do thy worst,
for I have lived today".

©David M. Pierce 11/23/95