Dave Bonta's poem is a memory of a river trip and a small bird seen there: the water ouzel, which dives into fast current and bobs on the shore. The speaker recalls it in pieces. There is its habit of appearing and disappearing, then a gay couple outside their camper who mimed its comic curtsying, and then the speaker's brother, who described the bird walking on the riverbed and "flying" underwater, its wings like oars.
The mood begins warm and playful, with shared amusement and family talk. The ending is quieter and more wondering. Watching the bird's beak move, unheard over the rapids, the speaker imagines what its underwater world sounds like from the inside. That final thought turns a happy memory into something more reflective. The poem suggests how much of another creature's life we can only guess at, even when we watch it closely, and the speaker seems to find that gap both humbling and enchanting.