Grace

20200131_081134-1

The heron perched upon the tree,
alighting as though magically
like a danseur whose faultless grace
assured he need not hide his face
for shame of fumbling stately stance,
his beak aloft, a noble lance,
and wings folded round as a cloak
as he watched from atop the oak
the fish down below, in the lake,
deciding which crappie to stake.
I wish I could stick such landings,
looming above the world and things:
so perilous high, yet so calm,
holding life tight, talon and palm,
or soaring over earth with ease,
never bucked by an errant breeze.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s