I see the word egret, but read, instead,
                regret. A trick of the mind. Its reversals. One,
a white slash, rising from the marsh. The other

a stone, strapped to the heart. The way I’ve carried
                all the would-haves, all the ifs. Each alternate
exhausts. The egret wades in the dark water,

seeking fish. The heart, constancy. I doubt the egret
               has regrets. Hatch, fledge, breed, hunt.
And besides, a lovely name that comes from French.

“Aigrette,” for brush, after the long feathers
               that stream down its back. How do its legs,
bent reversed, move ahead? Who wouldn’t want

to walk like that? There are days I step
               outside my body, arise, fly over the field
of my life, and glimpse—not error—but river,

rock, and oak, a wide expanse. Here and there
               a meadow, dry grass dotted with—could
they be poppies?—some bright-blurred, orange flame.