Great Blue Heron
In the poem below, Vermont poet T. Alan Broughton captures much of what I personally experience when I spend time observing a great blue heron fishing in shallow waters or standing in priestly solitude on the edge of a marsh. When Broughton speaks of the "bird that stays with me," or the "heron's dream to share his sky and water," or the heron's evening flight "through the dying sun and out again," I know precisely what he means, for I, too, have been enchanted by herons for most of my life.
Great Blue Heron
By T. Alan Broughton
I drive past him each day in the swamp where he stands
on one leg, hunched as if dreaming of his own form
the surface reflects. Often I nearly forget to turn left,
buy fish and wine, be home in time to cook and chill.
Today the bird stays with me, as if I am moving through
the heron's dream to share his sky or water — places
he will rise into on slow flapping wings or where
his long bill darts to catch unwary frogs. I've seen
his slate blue feathers lift him as dangling legs
fold back, I've seen him fly through the dying sun
and out again, entering night, entering my own sleep.
I only know this bird by a name we've wrapped him in,
and when I stand on my porch, fish in the broiler,
wine glass sweating against my palm, glint of sailboats
tacking home on dusky water, I try to imagine him
slowly descending to his nest, wise as he was
or ever will be, filling each moment with that moment's
act or silence, and the evening folds itself around me.
From T. Alan Broughton's
book of poetry, "A World Remembered"
