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.