Poetry

Flamingoes in the Camargue

One cannot say flamingoes walk … they step on slinky legs in lolly-pink tights. Knee-hinged, each leg sucked musk stick thin. Strobed scissor dances stir the mud to free their tea. Pen-nib beaks scoop, filter and withhold for young. Long necks answer their own questions, uncurl, heads high. In summer’s late-fading light pinkly white flocks of flamingoes step through the shallows of the delta where the Rhone’s searching veins seep into a patient, waveless sea.  

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