The Quiet Gesture
Upon the water, smooth as glass,
The mallard pauses, lets time pass.
A bow, a shift, a graceful stance,
A moment caught between a dance.
His wings curve close, his head dips low,
A quiet act, a measured flow.
No temple here, no need for creed,
Just balance born from simple need.
Perhaps he bows to shifting air,
To ripples reaching everywhere.
Or to the branches arching high,
Their shadows cast against the sky.
It’s not for us to name or claim
The meaning in his fleeting frame.
The beauty lies within the still,
A gesture made without a will.
On mirrored depths, where silence hums,
The world stands still—the moment comes.
A bow, a breath, and then it’s gone,
Yet something lingers, moving on.
I was out photographing birds, focused on their movements, when a graceful motion caught my eye. It unfolded so quickly that I barely had time to adjust my lens, capturing the soft light on feathers and the ripples it left behind. Moments like this—a fleeting dance, gone in an instant—are what make bird photography so rewarding.
