The Heron
The small grey heron,
tail feathers almost touching
the red brick wall,
stands knee-deep in water
as the tide creeps up the stone ramp.
It seems an odd place
for the solitary sentry
to take a stand
on her thin legs
and stare out into space.
Cars line both sides
of the ramp
and around her legs
ducks chase and bob at
bits of newly tossed-in bread.
Above her
Sunday strollers crowd the walkway
on this hot May afternoon.
Across the river at the café
I sip a cold coke
glancing every now and then
at the motionless heron on the other side—
nary a feather moves
nor a muscle twitches.
Framed by stillness--
silence--
she looks straight out
into her world
with a sureness of stance
and purpose that I can only envy.
For all she notices
the jostling world around her
could be a hundred miles away.
Meanwhile on the other side
I eavesdrop
on the Persian family next to me
whose little boys rough-house in their chairs
and breath in the
cigarette smoke drifting over from
the Polish guy
while two teenagers walk by
their laughter bouncing off
the uneven cobblestones.
Alone, I lean forward in my chair
stretching towards the river
trying, maybe a bit too hard,
to see,
touch,
feel
what—if anything
holds,
embraces
reveals
reveals
all this beauty that surrounds us here
on this
hot
Sunday
afternoon.
But then I keep turning back to watch
the people sipping tea,
chatting,
reading,
basking in the sun,
enjoying these few hours
freed from work.
Are they standing on a
truer reality
than the one I yearn to see?
Do they know something I don’t know?
Are they content to just be?
But then I glance again
at the heron
looking silently
steadily out across the water.
What does she see?
