Three Ibises in the Rain
That’s how it was early this morning–
three stark white ibises
against a green lawn, a layer
of low gray fog in the background.
I’ve learned it’s no use asking
the usual human questions—
where did they come from?
where are they going?
where will they sleep tonight–
in the same high nest they built?
or do they just pick a branch
as the shadows of the day become dark.
But I can still wonder
about the make-up of this threesome–
maybe a feathery manage a trois,
but more likely siblings,
two brothers and a sister
like the scene my wife grew up in,
the boys ganging up on her,
chasing her from room to room.
Only here, the three birds
are so engrossed in probing
the wet lawn for grubs
with their long reddish beaks–
surely curved for this purpose
over eons of evolutionary ibis time–
no room remains to torment the female.
I go on admiring their peaceful,
rhythmic nodding as they wade
through the grass in the rain.
Then I open the front door and clap
3 times, which sends them floating up
on silent wings, and over a low hedge,
leaving me to look out a different window
at the relative simplicity of the rain
minus any ibises, not to mention turtles or leopards.
