At Black River by Mary Oliver

All day 

its dark, slick bronze soaks 

in a mossy place,

its teeth, 

 

a multitude

set 

for the comedy

that never comes —

 

its tail

knobbed and shiny, 

and with a heavy-weight's punch

packed around the bone. 

 

In beautiful Florida 

he is king 

of his own part

of the black river, 

 

and from his nap 

he will wake 

into the warm darkness

to boom, and thrust forward,

 

paralyzing 

the swift, thin-waisted fish,

or the bird 

in its frilled, white gown, 

 

that has dipped down 

from the heaven of leaves 

one last time,

to drink.