Upturned leaves glide in.
Their umber-clad skeletons
disrupt the dance
of sun on water,
then cast shadows on the
tiles below.
An ibis drinks.
Its long beak dips, then disappears.
Its head lifts skyward,
fills its gullet,
slips under a wing,
then rests.
The leaves set sail,
freed by a sudden gust,
then stop.
Some sink.
Their fragile stems
now sodden and spent.
Others float.
Their edges
sharpened and torn,
flattened and scoured.
They weave together.
A jigsaw of coincidence.
Ibis stretches its wings,
searches their breadth,
flaps gently, then lifts,
gliding skyward,
casting shadows
on the tiles below.
Image: Tracie McMahon.
