Our yard has become marsh.
The egrets will be coming any day now,
white and dazzlingly self-aware
as Hvorostovsky on a Russian stage.
And we, their audience, cry
na zdorovje seeing them, admiring
their brilliance in this dreary week, the way
they make us feel, like a small icy draft
of coriander vodka slipping down.
image: Snowy Egret, Franco Folini
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