Survival .

-- The heron...

old bent thing,

spends hours ...

looking like graying bark,

part of a dead trunk

lying over opaque water.

She strikes the pose so long

I begin to worry.

Because ....

she's determined to be something ordinary.

The small lakes continue their slide into bog and muck—

remember when they ran clear,

an invisible spring renewing the water?

But the ducks stay longer,

amusing ruffle and chatter.

So everyone can be distracted.

But the heron appears to have

no particular fear or hunger.

Her gaunt body ..

hinged haphazardly,

a few gears unlocking one wing,

then another.

More than a generation here

and every year more drab.

Older now,

I see her plain:

a mere surviving against a weedy bank

with fox dens

and the ruthless,

overhead patrol.

Yet ...

Some blind clockwork keeps her going !