Flamingos holding themselves on one leg, perfectly still,
as if they loathed touching the ground. —Jane Kenyon

What else could explain
this pose. Hours considering
a future, one timid step at a time,
weighing a promise
that’s more likely a guess.

Some days I run my boat aground
on a deserted bank. I wait
for the smell of deer rot, the jagged
sound of jays screeching,
or the bobbing ball a retriever’s lost.

I listen for the voice
that trickles,
never bellows,
one short-of-breath comment
from the tentative earth.

Everyone seems to love go
and hates stop.
But all I want is to stop,
as if a pose might halt all else:
seasons, the years I have

left, or the decision today,
halfway around the world,
that scorched
four hundred souls from their bodies—
in just one day.

Why wouldn’t those birds hesitate?