Heron

[shadowfireflame]

Based on observations from Middlefork Savannah.

Heron

 

On a dead log

In the shade of the sun

Near the stale green water

The blue heron

            waits

Still like a statue

            but with an imperceptible shift of its eye

            so that we know he knows we’re here

A turtle disappears into the algae

 

Dry dead leaves race each other past me to the water

The dead tree branches reach, fingerlike, from the pond towards the sky

They are the hands of a drowning man sinking

Glacier-slowly and unstoppably

Second by second down past the reeds,

The ivy vines, the dandelions, the leaved trees slipping into dotage

            into the green water pond

 

The trees here are dying.

            Their leaves turn golden brown from pasty green

            And curl at the edges and grow holes.

One disconnects from its branch at a blast of wind

And flutters to rest, an upside-down umbrella on the surface of the pond,

Where pitter-patter drops begin to plink the surface.

It smells of algae and wet

 

The heron

            bluegray feathered

            spindle legs

            reaching neck

with a bean-shaped torso

            a black stripe on his head

The heron

            tilts his head on his spindle neck and twitches a needle leg.

Thunder groans,

A train screeches and blares its way

Past his left. He blinks,

            And energy flows in a wave through his body from

            His feet to his neck to the horizontal black stripe on his head as

            He readies himself for flight.

With a cackling honk that reverberates over the pond water,

His feet push the dead log, leaving little ripples in the vibrating pond behind him.

He opens his bean body to reveal an impressive wingspan

Aligns his body in a diagonal arrow

And is gone, swooping over the pond to another

Dead tree branch

Pointing its finger to the heavens

In mute accusation

Or hope of rescue.