There have been kingfishers at the lake when we go down for our morning swim. They fly from low branch to low branch. I suspect we’ve interrupted their breakfast. This morning, in grey air, a single crayfish claw on a rock.

From her roost the water hen stretched out
her purple-green sleek neck,
the kingfisher’s quick glance
shook droplets from his crown,
and I thought love would always be
that brilliant on the wing and wild.

–Ibykos, 6th c. BCE, trans. Brooks Haxton

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