Ouzel

I watched in the woods, until as I wished, Upon a mossy rock lit an ouzel In a shaft of light shining ‘midst the mists Of a swiftly swirling stream in the dell. If he came to dance, he had come to please. My overgrown wren slowly flexed his knees Blissfully bobbing, crying, “Zeet, zeet, zeet” – A rousing rhumba on unmoving feet. Looking about, in solitude, blinking, As if for traffic, when with a quick move And a clear note of joy, shrilly ringing, Into the roiling cataract he dove To the bottom of the water, how odd; There to trod like some strange inverted god.