Pied Cormorant

No onlooker could guess the whirlpool instant
of dive or resurfacing; the angle of
underwater search; the fresh vectors of
attention as ribbed feet stroke the river.
There's no limit but the limit of breath,
no pattern or rhythm. Only the seamless
surprise of instinct at work — slow or quick,
calm-eyed, intent: gift wrested from challenge.
Each vanishing ruffles the tide's feathers,
then an evenly plumed flux again.
Periscope head and neck flash salt-white;
a dark crossbow cuts the horizon, sweeps
sidelong over bushland, tunnels through
sun-speared air, through the end point of sight.