Rosanne Singer Poetry


Perfect Alignment
Wildlife Refuge, 1996

She sits as still as
the blue heron,
the sight of him or the heat
freezing her five-year-old body.

He stands where the marshes
part in a perfect V, posing
sideways like his carved outline
on the wood post nearby.

We are sweating statues,
our car stopped, windows down,
the air so thick
it squeezes our breath tight.

In slow motion
I find our water bottle and
we pass it back and forth
like languid dancers.

How does she know
not to say a word?


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