After reading Rebecca's accounting of the salmon
returning to spawn in a local creek, this poem
by David Wagoner has been afloat in my brain
THE POETS AGREE TO BE QUIET BY THE SWAMP
They hold their hands over their mouths
And stare at the stretch of water.
What can be said has been said before:
Strokes of light like herons' legs in the cattails,
Mud underneath, frogs lying even deeper.
Therefore, the poets may keep quiet.
But the corners of their mouths grin past their hands.
They stick their elbows out into the evening,
Stoop, and begin the ancient croaking
I've always loved this poem.