Gannets by Mary Oliver

I am watching the white gannets 

blaze down into the water 

with the power of blunt spears

 and a stunning accuracy— even 

though the sea is riled 

and boiling and gray with fog 

and the fish are nowhere to be seen, 

they fall, 

they explode into the water like white gloves,

 then they vanish, then they climb out again,

 from the cliff of the wave,

 like white flowers— and still 

I think that nothing in this world 

moves but as a positive power— 

even the fish, 

finning down into the current

or collapsing in the red purse of the beak,

 are only interrupted 

from their own pursuit 

of whatever it is that fills their bellies—

 and I say:

 life is real, and pain is real,

 but death is an imposter, 

and if I could be what once I was, 

like the wolf or the bear

 standing on the cold shore, 

I would still see it—

 how the fish simply escape,

 this time, 

or how they slide down

 into a black fire for a moment, 

then rise from the water

 inseparable from the gannets’ wings.