Heron

Take your glassy eyes away from whatever screen pierces them. Lift your weathered face out of whatever curiosity or burden holds it. Let your quiet mouth that has so much to say, but no one to hear, be another way you listen.

A Great blue heron is landing at pond’s edge, hungry yet patient.

Chickadees, juncos, mourning doves—all the little birds whose songs you didn’t realize were filling your ears have gone quiet.

The water lilies accept the heron’s slow, calculating, clawed feet, the left, and after a time, the right. The misty morning air parts to let his raised, black-and-white crest and spearish bill come closer to wait, a motionless mix of sticks and feathers, his long gaze into the water, pure energy.

The orange and slatey fish who bolt beneath the surface, now nestle deep into pond roots.

What hunger is hardest? Wanting to eat or to live? Risking being seen or unseen?

Behind glass, still as this bird that always makes you think, pterodactyl, your heart feels wild and loud.

Without thinking, your hand gently glides up, as if another bird, from lap to chest. Suddenly the heron pulls himself up on his wide, awkward, blue-grey wings, legs dangling and dripping. Gone.

Do you feel sad or glad that he saw you?