JULY (BY THE RIVER)
A great blue
heron’s spindle feet
hold its place
on the torrent’s rocks.
Does this miraculous
strange bird contemplate
the tumult
while we consider her,
our fingers threaded?
We walk past
a sycamore, hollowed
of heartwood:
a husk, a crone,
a high water mark.
A fawn raises her head,
pauses
her browse,
checks our intent.
Youth fades
from her copper
coat.
A darner pirouettes
over the creeklet,
alights
on a black gum leaf,
prowling the air
with her inscrutable
compound eyes.
How like these creatures
are we?
How do they
pay attention?
* * *
This is another in my poem of the day series that I share on Facebook. You can backtrack through the posts or use the tag “Poem of the Day” to read previous entries.
Peter Walks for Democracy 