Song

At the edge of the bay the Great Blue Heron
raised on branched foot with impossible grace
to strectch his leg and place his foot again
on the slick back of the marsh.

The other foot followed
and in this way the heron walked
toward the bank. The clouds shifted
and he was doubled by reflection

on the water's sun gilt surface
before he disappeared in the sedge,
leaving me looking, the way a pilgrim stands
at the site of an old miracle.

I followed the dark clouds home.
The empty road lifted and fell under me
as if I were weightless, riding
the heron's wide blue wings,

and when the moon's alleluia rose
through the thick throats of the redwoods
I too knew the song
of her broken light.

Changing
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