Where the path closed <br /> down and over, <br /> through the scumbled leaves, <br /> fallen branches, <br />through the knotted catbrier, <br /> I kept going. Finally <br /> I could not <br /> save my arms <br /> from thorns; soon <br />the mosquitoes <br /> smelled me, hot <br /> and wounded, and came <br /> wheeling and whining. <br /> And that's how I came <br />to the edge of the pond: <br /> black and empty <br /> except for a spindle <br /> of bleached reeds <br />at the far shore <br /> which, as I looked, <br /> wrinkled suddenly <br /> into three egrets - - - <br />a shower <br /> of white fire! <br /> Even half-asleep they had <br /> such faith in the world <br />that had made them - - - <br /> tilting through the water, <br /> unruffled, sure, <br /> by the laws <br />of their faith not logic, <br /> they opened their wings <br /> softly and stepped <br /> over every dark thing.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/egrets/
