The heron stands?
stock-still blue waiting?
sharp-billed and smoky?
like a graceful victorian
Surely there should be ?
a sonata playing?
deep cello sounds?
caressing the vision?
misting the edges?
smooth chords resonate?
little vibrations shimmer
on the mirror of the water.
Nests top the tall dead trees?
Like crowns of thorns.?
I am there. I sway in the wind?
and depend on my mother’s wings.
This article appears in Reinventing Scotia.