The Heron

She is the mother

   of waiting

   sitting there

on a drift wood log

   as tho her long legs

   were once its limbs

she sits so still

   it is as if

   she were herself

   carved of myrtle

gray with weather

   her feathers

   unruffled

by the breeze

   blowing in

   off the sound

her keen eyes

   black beads

   steely sharp

as her long beak

   waiting

   waiting

“It was a voice which spoke of the lost world

which once was ours before we chose the alien role;

a world which I had glimpsed and almost entered . . .

only to be excluded, at the end, by my own self.”

~ Farley Mowat

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About Peter Notehelfer

I'm a retired people person who now finds the time to watch the little details of the world without worrying about being watched by anyone . . . I live on an Island north of Seattle with my wife named Ellen, a yellow dog named McGee, a yellow cat named Gatzby, and four fine chickens . . . I read fiction, bake bread, smoke salmon, and fish whenever the weather allows . . . Oh, and yes, I try to write a poem every day simply to avoid senility!
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