A white-faced long legged
lonesome bird flapping,
graceful, soundless, focused.
Wings propel this blue-grey softly feathered
rippling river surface height
white cheeks glowing, eyes probing
shallows. Bill poised to strike.
On landing, skinny legs step
forth, adopt a stalking posture
seeking to transform an innocent
finning fish to weightless birdness.
My introspection rises to a gleaming surface to wonder
at the ease with which blue-grey heron
spears into turbid rippling zephyr-paddled
waters to pierce the wetted scaly
resistance of one more squirming bream.
I roll down the nearby looming grassy
bank into your inquiring gaze,
and retreat in morbid haste from your finely focused
unspoken disturbing query:
is it on, or is it off, do you fetter my
tangible signal with a dismissive smile –
or do you cry into the night, alone
with memories of touch and melting promises.
I surface from the reed beds bawling, as
you, my white-faced heron, fly
silently by into
a night darkened far too soon by freedom.