Suppose wisdom came from a wood stork,
that bald-headed drifter
you see standing in the grass
down by the fish-cleaning station—
his posture, neck drawn in, an old argument
with the past, his dark bill
looking more like burden than tool.
But when he flies, you trace
the black tips of his wings, his body
a soft, white arc
you know as perfect translation.
You’ve lost all doubt.
Doesn’t it make sense for him
when he lands, after tucking his wings
but before easing from stillness,
to ignore you and consider instead
the green-bladed view, inch by inch.
To pause, one foot raised,
weighing the long, thick, inexplicable day.
