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

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?