He is magnificent with his long, pencil-thin neck and slender legs,
feathers blue-gray, nearly silver in the intense morning sunlight.
Resembling an accomplished figure skater, he glides effortlessly,
Holding a glistening fish in his beak,
One whose presence was but a mere ripple in the still water.
The heron knows how to bide his time,
Watching the pattern of circles ebb and flow,
Observing the soft splashes of his sustenance.
We watch, you and I,
afraid to move too quickly in the rustling clover, or even to breathe
for fear of starting the creature whose presence is a gift.
Our intent is to experience whatever of nature is left to us
beyond the chain saws,
the crack of a nearby rifle range,
the lonely whistle of a distant train.
We desire something that is only possible for the heron.