Heron Song

Mornings, the heron descends to shore. His silver wings crescendo the air, fermata—then fold, seeking the sleek curve of his body. He comes to stand

by the shore and wet his feet. To watch the waves. Once, he snaps an eel with his beak, its shoestring body twisting like a pendulum.

He grips it like a surgeon, sure and still, patient, waiting while it undulates, waiting while it loosens, finally going limp.

Then—he flicks his head, snaps his jaws to slide it down in one, two, three slow beats. But mostly, he stands, gazing out

over the bay. He is still, contemplative. I wonder what reflections swirl in his walnut brain: watching the clouds for certain wings.

Wondering why the water turns from calm chartreuse to cinnamon. Marks that water, the collective, isn’t quite the word for

a million facets of light and shadow. Or, listening to the rhythm of the waves, if he’s counting out the measure of his creation.