The Dipper
By Kathleen Jamie
It was winter, near freezing, I’d walked through a forest of firs when I saw issue out of the waterfall a solitary bird.
It lit on a damp rock, and, as water swept stupidly on, wrung from its own throat supple, undammable song.
It isn’t mine to give. I can’t coax this bird to my hand that knows the depth of the river yet sings of it on land.





















