The Patuxent Slips Through My Fingers

The great blue heron—gawky dinosaur
darling of the Chesapeake—kinks its neck into a treble clef
and jabs its jagged head into some twist of murk
and light, dropping supper headfirst
down its gullet. Beyond the bird’s yellow eyes,
the sun fidgets with water, shivering

at the unexpected quickening of fall.
History is cold coming and loose feathers.
Local fish hawks begin again to feel
as águia-pesqueira, buoyed by thermals
toward warmer climes. Channel cats nibble

the downed sun. If I could trace this briskness,
I’d use dynamic blues and yellows,
scrub brush, flat of palm, leaving the canvas
a tangle of silt.

Over a far reach of marsh,
red-winged blackbirds tackle a stand
of wild rice, making a point
of the horizon. They drop one by one
to pluck from the mud not browning stalks
or coming frost, but shatterings.

Will Carpenter is a poet and critic with an MFA from the University of Florida. His criticism has been published in the Atticus Review, the Denver Quarterly Review, and DIAGRAM. Although he has relocated throughout his life, Will calls Calvert County, MD, home.

Published April 15 2025