Heron

That serpentine curve of the little blue heron’s
neck, stalking its prey: was that what I saw this
morning? No, I think I saw necessity turned to
beauty as it filtered through me. I am nothing
if not a transformation machine, turning coffee
into distance, changing a small hungry bird into
a chemical dance, into an imperfect memory of
something whole. From my point of view, we’re
reeling from the shock of it—radiant light, gravel
underfoot, the chill air morphing into the steam
of an exhaled breath—the shock of it all so very
overwhelming, we have to turn a blind eye just
to walk through the sunrise and out into the day.