The pied stilt

stands still,

staring

 

and contemplates

the canvas at its feet

 

the wrinkled hills

sweep

of sky

 

wool-tuft clouds

like the tassels that sheep

leave

on the taut wires

of fencelines;

 

the white space

where the sun should be,

 

dark water

filling the rest.

 

Is it complete?

Is there nothing left

to add now?

Perfection

save for the

intrusive reflection

of a beak?

 

The stilt

hesitates

seems to weigh

its choices,

then tilts

its head and pricks

a tiny point

into the scene,

 

steps back

content.

 

Now that

is perfection.