Its name is Heron and its eyes
Small black pearls in white down
Mark the sun on its way to the sea
-That ship of ships-
Bright above
High and burning

Heron shuffles its feathers
Sits lower on the branch
-Wrapped in poplar leaves-
Like drapery
Cascading to the ground
Like the sun to the sea

Thousand upon thousand
The army of lights play across moving water
-Chasing after the retreating sun-
Heron watches
Black pearls blink twice
And the army races on

Fishing boats lined with old nets
Worn by water at the hull
-With tired old men sitting; talking-
Drift by languidly
Like old men
To dock and sleep

Heron and the poplar watch
As they have, together, for centuries
-And the sun diminishes on the horizon-
Calling a wind through the leaves
Heron shakes its head
Wings then like fans

Heron asks the leaves
“Where is this wind?”
-Poplar turns upward with green veins-
“Thank you.”
Heron, wings like fans
Shaking branch, empty tree

Old men tap out their pipes
They mutter of the poor catch today
And shuffle along the old planks of the dock
Heron is there, like a statue on a pedestal
They share a glance
And the men walk on, one coughs

Small black pearls in white down
Mark the last of the sun, feathers test the breeze
-All of the ancient world’s patterns are still here-
Heron, like a statue, fades to a silhouette
Carved into the night, and in an instant
Makes swift to fade with passing shadows on the shore.

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