A kingfisher cannot tell you
which way the wind will blow,
her squat form built only for the dive
of mercuried blue from reed perches,
exists to seek an unlucky minnow
or stickleback, head tilted
against deceptive refractions.
A kingfisher will not bring you luck
in a feather or avert the threat
of stormy weather: when you have eaten
sunsets, you must wear the sky
upon your back and hold a fire
inside your belly - she has burdens
enough of her own.
A kingfisher does not observe
the distractions of reflections
of dreams of clouds, her eyes -
black pools of focus, and
in all things, she operates in flashes:
taken, stunned, swallowed headfirst,
then for another, this is how she fishes -
she cannot live on trusts and wishes
and the swindles of guarantees.
No kingfisher ever promised
a single halcyon day,
nor nested on fish bones to still
an ocean; instead, she will thread light
into the darkness of a riverbank,
bury her ivory-shelled tomorrows,
and here, feverish hopes will emerge
from the compaction of wintered griefs.
Image from wikimedia commons:
Also this painting on twitter: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kingfisher_Ruskin.jpg