Maybe it’s from moss
he gets the green light
to walk under water. In Paul’s letter
to the Ephesians, he’s almost mentioned,
but who would believe in the miracle
of a little bird, especially standing
in white water, peering
down around his own feet
for food while the creek flows
over. “Down there” is always subjective,
but you can watch him
descend in a zigzag walk
down to where light sets the table.
Small himself, it’s the spineless
he’s after. What we want to 
figure out, he eats. How many feet 
of creek does it take, for example, 
to make one Ouzel? What feeling is
to poetry, larvae is to caddis – a sudden hatch –
the porch light by the screen door
where hundreds hang on.
We have to be content
to name what he brings up: hellgrammite,
nymph, stonefly.