Ibis 101

He's treading the shallows at the border of the lake like a house cat kneading your lap, his neck like radar, scanning a map for morsels disingenuously believing the borders of the lake are Zen, that the mire in which they anchor is armor against the avian, but then, gliding guilelessly along edges, Slowly,slowly, no need for hurry: he never hedges the bet there's breakfast beneath his feet, the table set.