Saturday Poem

So, this is the penultimate poem in my Lenten challenge. It is a poem that came to me when I was teaching at a gym that over-looked the mud flats.  I was on a treadmill that day, looking out at the wildlife so prevalent in that area, and was most captivated by this lone heron. This was my first published poem.

Heron

                                               

He blends almost fully

into the pull  of tide, a long

stretch of neck arched above folded wings.

He seems to glide backward

in meditation

with all the patience and ease

of Jesus fishing for breakfast at dawn.

His gaze piercing the surface he is lost

in the ripple of migrating waters

only to appear again, stark

as a bone of driftwood against a dark eddy.

In this moment he strikes with such grace

that I desire to imagine his prey

doesn’t suffer;  that it comes to him, willing

to die so beautifully.

--Ronda Broatch