and celadon, face and hands tending
a species of avian nature from the tribe anserini,
she’s gathered her apron and shed her shoes
to wade in with them, their cluster and chuckle
rendered in chubby daub and beaked in vermillion.
To her, they’re not merely flock or chore, but she
who’s bossy, she who straggles, the sheen of underwing
in full sun. They are realest maybe to the man
who didn’t romanticize girlhood and its solitudes,
but reflected it from the muddy pool
in which the geese float, red-beaked
and attentive to the girl’s trilling call.