Saudade for a Great Blue Heron
Dusky sun slants on slow, gray water.
A ruffling in the brush, a swoop of air,
a delft raincloud raises its fringed cape
and pulls forward as pewter wings arc and flare.
A form, ancient and wild, rises. Gangling legs
trail as leathered sinews stretch.
Prussian-hued feathers, fold, sweep, extend,
hunched shoulders reach, recoil into the ess-ed neck.
As the great blue bird bursts gravity’s bounds,
golden beak arrows toward the glowing west.
Narrow head tilts, a great lift has begun.
One thin black streak streams back from the crest.
Take me with you, I nearly cry aloud.
The wing does its work. He makes for the cobalt clouds.
Lorrie Wolfe
Published in The Language of Crows
