September 20, 2013

• The Heron

  It’s strange – After wandering city streets half your life
  To wake at four or so and hear the multiple throbbing of diesels
  With an old straight eight thrown in
  One or two of them with slightly perforated mufflers
  Softly crackling in the stillness of dawn

  They’re not eighteen-wheelers you hear but fishing boats
  Running past the island
  Running lights still visible in the brightening
  Heading past the spindle that marks the beginning of Morse's ledge
  Rousting the ospreys nestled there since early spring

  It’s strange too when you can’t sleep and the wind comes west
  You hear real eighteen-wheelers struggling up the old post hill
  Jamming gears a dozen miles away
  Out here though commerce doesn’t matter
  Safe on this ledge waiting for the blue

  You know he’s there somewhere – Stepping elegantly
  Oblivious of murmuring engines passing
  You can’t spot him yet in the roseate mist
  But as the lacy tide recedes he’ll ghost up
  Absolutely still ¬ Long-necked - Stick-legged - Listening

  Strange – After wandering those South Bronx streets so long ago
  In neighborhoods now wasted by the junkies
  Would you have dreamed yourself into this expectant isolation?
  Waiting for this noble bird
  Its image carved by ancients on their tombs?

  • 3:40 pm
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