Spoonbills

Jet skiers carve up the river, the morning.
Air clears. The river heals. Spoonbills fly in.
They have chosen this simpler version of
reality — moving in a group of six
through the shallows, their pendulum bill-sweeps
screening for crabs, fairy shrimp, yabbies.
With sprightly vigilance they patrol
up to the bridge and back, engaged in
a walking and feeding meditation
on the nature of mud. There's a rhythm
to their searching, to their positioning
of bodies in relation — a white company
with graceful headdresses, ringed by topaz
on a soundless noon in midsummer.