The Four Corners, and: The Bird Called Halcyon

THE FOUR CORNERS / Maura High She pulls her t-shirt straight and glances down at her breasts, that swell as the earth does before a bean breaks through and uncurls: my daughter: It's dawn in her game of crossroads, and she is lucky and resolute, stepping out with her compass, slicker, and a bagful of crackers and candy— east west north south, past each bend, more forks and junctions, south west north east, more chances. I say nothing. What could I say to her? I could make a story for myself, maybe: say it's night and summer, because there are fireflies here that slip under the black trees and rise, winking to each other, and I'm looking up each of the four roads and see figures approaching in the moonlight. They reach me at last and merge—into the single figure of my child—she clambers all over me. 54 · The Missouri Review THE BIRD CALLED HALCYON / Maura High It is noon and I am standing in the mud Of the Athi River, watching a pied kingfisher Hover over the water. The river slides Against my calves colouring them amber. White, black and white, white and black, Again the kingfisher scoops down, misses, And soars again to hover: like the word "Noon," a smooth, symmetric movement, reflected On itself, negative negated, pivoted on nothing. A boy comes down to the bar opposite, and kneels To dig with a tin cup. I wade across. Buffalo—he calls, gesturing—upstream somewhere. He shrugs, and returns to digging, as if It made no difference to him, or to his work. So it makes none for me, nor for the kingfisher, Unless all this time it was danger that defined what calm is. We stand and watch the hole fill upwards: A clear well: drinking water. The Missouri Review · 55 ...