Poetry Sunday

Last summer we visited the Henry Vilas Zoo in Madison, a trip most remarkable because of the torrential downpour that stranded us in a shelter with a handful of other people for over an hour while water overwhelmed the drains and rose like the Great Flood. I drew the flamingos later from a photo I took earlier that day.

Flamingo Watching
Kay Ryan

Wherever the flamingo goes,
she brings a city’s worth
of furbelows. She seems
unnatural by nature—
too vivid and peculiar
a structure to be pretty,
and flexible to the point
of oddity. Perched on
those legs, anything she does
seems like an act. Descending
on her egg or draping her head
along her back, she’s
too exact and sinuous
to convince an audience
she’s serious. The natural elect,
they think, would be less pink,
less able to relax their necks,
less flamboyant in general.
They privately expect that it’s some
poorly jointed bland grey animal
with mitts for hands
whom God protects.