The Great Blue Heron

 

 

 

The great blue heron returned last night.

Flew in under the cover of darkness,

Folding his wings into an envelope of marsh and beach grass,

Waiting to allow me

The pleasure of his return

Until morning.

 

In the dampness of November

The heron’s message of surprise

Is a secret gift I tell no one about.

The heron knows me like no other

And he returns just when the night seems too long.

 

As I sip my coffee in my slippers on the lawn

The heron watches:

Deciding when he will show his great deep beak

And his broad blue wings above me,

Deciding when he will fish for me

Or reveal a sliver of sun on this gloomy day in the beginning of winter.

 

The heron knows he belongs south but he is a loyal bird.

Refusing to take to the air on time,

He is my guardian: my winged seraph,

The keeper of my pond boiling in the early morning

With the steam of the earth raising her young.

The heron is the first one that has known I need him.