Heron

For many years

I did not know that the egret

is an immature heron.

Even now I may be lying.

Not lying in wait in a heron-like

(heronic?)

stillness of bamboo stilted legs

but standing on my own pins

between the bank and the pines

behind and watching the almost-hidden heron

lift,

slower than Time itself,

one stick of a leg

and balance in tai-chi smoothness

as she lulls the silvery prey

into careless abandon

and then the long beak darts

into the water

and the fish is breakfast.

Is here, not here.

And I am astounded by the lessons of this moment:

The patience.

The slowness of movement.

The eating.

The death.

The inevitability.

Gratitude for it all.

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Ann Tudor
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Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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