by Z.G. Tomaszewski

To wet the dry rattle in its mouth
it plunges into the pond
from the dead red cedar.

Lifting from a quick swim
it returns to the gray branch
quelched.

The branch breaks—it looks like a stone
set there has fallen, it’s the kingfisher
who casts himself into the water—

kahplue.

Rising once more,
he circumnavigates
the shore, finds another perch

to place his body.
When he casts yet again his beak hooks
the silvery leaf of a fish.

The creak of his throaty call
allays as the minnow tumbles into stomach,
silencing hunger.

Born within whispering distance of Lake Michigan and riddled by the Grand River, Z.G. Tomaszewski lives in Grand Rapids as a rambler, handyman, and musician, as well as a founding organizer of Lamp Light Music Festival and co-founder of Great Lakes Commonwealth of Letters. Poems have appeared or are forthcoming in publications including Parabola, Southword Journal, I-70 Review, Cold Mountain Review, Fogged Clarity, Scintilla, OVS Magazine, and The Moth, among others.