By T. Alan Broughton
I drive past him each day in the swamp where he stands
on one leg, hunched as if dreaming of his own form
the surface reflects. Often I nearly forget to turn left,
buy fish and wine, be home in time to cook and chill.
Today the bird stays with me, as if I am moving through
the heron’s dream to share his sky or water—places
he will rise into on slow flapping wings or where
his long bill darts to catch unwary frogs. I’ve seen
his slate blue feathers lift him as dangling legs
fold back, I’ve seen him fly through the dying sun
and out again, entering night, entering my own sleep.
I only know this bird by a name we’ve wrapped him in,
and when I stand on my porch, fish in the broiler,
wine glass sweating against my palm, glint of sailboats
tacking home on dusky water, I try to imagine him
slowly descending to his nest, wise as he was
or ever will be, filling each moment with that moment’s
act or silence, and the evening folds itself around me.
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I wasted too much of Wednesday being angry on Twitter because various public figures are assholes. Otherwise I did a bunch of what has become the usual for this quarantine year: some writing, some photo stuff, some laundry, some keeping the cats entertained, plus a walk (no bunnies today but a frog peeking out) in the neighbor's fish pond.
We ate cheeseburger casserole, then watched The 100, whose main characters are too scattered for my taste in a final season when I'd like to see them interacting, and Agents of SHIELD, which I felt the same about tonight though most of this season has been such fun that I haven't minded. Here are herons we saw on the canal last weekend, both great blue and green:
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