The kingfisher rises out of the black wave <br />like a blue flower, in his beak <br />he carries a silver leaf. I think this is <br />the prettiest world--so long as you don't mind <br />a little dying, how could there be a day in your <br /> whole life <br />that doesn't have its splash of happiness? <br />There are more fish than there are leaves <br />on a thousand trees, and anyway the kingfisher <br />wasn't born to think about it, or anything else. <br />When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the <br /> water <br />remains water--hunger is the only story <br />he has ever heard in his life that he could <br /> believe. <br />I don't say he's right. Neither <br />do I say he's wrong. Religiously he swallows the <br /> silver leaf <br />with its broken red river, and with a rough and <br /> easy cry <br />I couldn't rouse out of my thoughtful body <br />if my life depended on it, he swings back <br />over the bright sea to do the same thing, to do it <br />(as I long to do something, anything) perfectly. <br /> <br /> <br />Submitted by Michael D. Harrell<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-kingfisher/
