The Heron

It’s as if these hills hold a second sight  
The sycamores when still and silent  
Ghostly white and they weep for the empty rookery  

The heron  
Just as pale and blue  
Stand an apparition on the banks  
Lonely for the colony and its need  
He is smoke to my water  
The current moves me through his gaze  
Holds me there through the bend  
And then I drift beyond it  
 
He remains  
like my history  
And its fog of memory  
To keep the edge  
To eye the flow  
Dig capable whistled leg  
Into pale hues of fossils  
And time placed compression  
Impressions of my used to be  
 
The prowlers with yellow eyes  
Curve and sweep  
The startling screech  
Cries fear  
Into the calm of all this  
Beauty  
But often eerie  
And foreshadowing quiet  
Brushy tails shiver my good sense  
 
I will go to the river  
And strip down to nothing  
But the peach of me  
And the wonder in my regard  
Of all of this  
And its spiritual entry into my being  
Dive in and feel my soul float  
Out of the cool caress of my skin  
 
The night and its moon  
Will color me an orgasmic  
But pale mood  
To suit the atmosphere  
And its esoteric tastes  
I will be a mystic here  
And chant my name to the stars