Upright I stand in water
waiting to fly. I watch
the angle of throat, pulling me up
dragging me down. I dream
the curve of stone and shore
knowing I can
launch these bones and tendons
my wingless shoulders.
It is all in the thought
of the heron, the poised eye
motionless or stepped forth
each deliberate foot
these awkward bones pushed
severe into flight.

We who are awkward.

The flight of the heron, the clamour
to gain the air
bones and feathers adrift
tendons too heavy.

The heron, half seen,
is wrapped in its overcoat
owning its notch of shore,
jetty, backwater.
Our overcoats flapping,
untidy with feathers and hair,
we who are awkward
gain flight,
our bones and tendons sweeping air,
just clearing the trees and branches.

The heron defaults, circling into distance,
seeking its place again.
It is all in the thought
of the heron.