Ninety and naked, she grabs
two pitchers of water
from the assistant’s unguarded cart
and sneaks outside.
The pitchers weigh on her frail arms,
slow her aching hips as she puts
one bare foot after another
on damp lawn.
Reaching the marsh, she sits
on a splintered bench, gathering strength
to finish her mission: to pour water
on the mangrove
where she believes she found
a roseate spoonbill’s nest,
and to water the marsh itself,
to make its waning level rise.
She has no doubt
she will meet the spoonbill
soon. Eyes shut,
she sees pink feathers.