Flamingo Watching

Wherever the flamingo goes, 
she brings a city’s worth
of furbelows. She seems
unnatural by nature—
too vivid and peculiar
a structure to be pretty,
and flexible to the point 
of oddity. Perched on
those legs, anything she does 
seems like an act. Descending 
on her egg or draping her head 
along her back, she’s
too exact and sinuous
to convince an audience
she’s serious. The natural elect, 
they think, would be less pink, 
less able to relax their necks, 
less flamboyant in general.
They privately expect that it’s some 
poorly jointed bland grey animal 
with mitts for hands
whom God protects.