At the Salt Marsh

At the Salt Marsh


Those teal with traveling wings
had done nothing to us, but
they were meat, and we waited
for them with killer guns
in the blind--deceitful
in the rain.

They flew so arrowy till
when they fell,
where the dead grass bent
flat and wet--
that I looked for something after
nightfall to come tell me why
it was all right.

I touched the soft head with eyes gone
and felt through the feathers
all the dark, while we steamed
our socks by the fire
and stubborn flame licked the bark.

Still I wonder, out through
the raw blow, out over the rain
that levels the reeds, how broken
parts can be wrong but true.
I scatter my asking.
I hold the duck head.


William Stafford

Posted over on William Stafford Archives