Some call them snake birds
the way they swim with their heads up,
a long twisty neck just visible beneath.
But when they become birds again
drying outstretched wings
I call them something else—
dark angels maybe.
Yesterday when one stood like that
on a piling barely submerged
it seemed to stand on water,
like Jesus, and with those
angel wings fluttering like fingers.
I stand like that, I thought,
to dry my underarms,
flapping and cooling myself
as Jesus must have done, too,
in that hot middle-eastern land.
The Christ in me, the One
in a cormorant: we greet each other,
one tick, all of us, from a reptile