On the Water
Here is the golden diver skimming, bold
Upon the water’s surface, feet outspread
Almost as wide as wingtips, and her head
Dips down to taste the water’s nectar, cold
And smooth and still and dark and deep. Her hold
Just dints its placid surface with her tread
Yet scarce reflects her there; its glass instead
Waits silent whether foot or wing unrolled
Shall slip into its wetness, whether all
Shall change beneath her in a moment’s swift
Surge into fear, to leave the air and fall
Where wings are powerless. How brave to drift
On water’s face, afloat where death may maul.
No, drink complete, her wings take life and lift.
The swimmer I wrote about was a Yellow, or Golden, Paper Wasp, probably Polistes flavus, reaching down to take a drink.