My Blue Heron

 

My Blue Heron

My blue heron
is actually gray.
And actually
not mine.
She visits,
then vanishes.
On land she carries her feet
floppy as waffles on jointed sticks.
In flight she flaps slowly, folded neck, gliding
just above water, then stands
still as sculpture
toes in mud
until with a sudden cock of head
(can she hear them?) the swift beak
plucks a fish, lifts, grips like pincers,
points to the sky.
A slight shake of head
to reposition above gullet,
and she swallows
with a smacking of mouth,
a gleam of eye.
She is a beauty.
Sorry, fish.

……

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in Your Daily Poem. Thank you Jayne Jauden Ferrer, editor.
photo by skeeze