A blue heron, on the dock,
night fishing with the help
of yellow dock lights, meant
to keep boaters from falling
into a slip or slipping on wet
planks.
A blue heron, not really blue
but gray, with a white under-
belly and with long, slender
feathers.
He stands on the planks at
the rear of Robin, looking
over the edge of the dock,
hoping for fish, little fish, but
the water is
way down, a blowout tide,
and it's a long way down
even if you have a long, thin,
elastic neck made for fishing
from docks.
There is a breeze, perhaps
ten or twelve knots from
the north.
The heron is facing south,
and the air tosses the narrow
feather ends so that the heron
looks as if he is wearing silk,
rippling silk or chiffon. He looks
like a she.
And maybe he is, gender being
not always apparent in heron.
He does not know he is being
watched.
Does not know I have opened
the hatch, am looking at him,
invading his night-time
foray.
He dips his arrow-shaped
head-beak over the planks
and looks hard
at the water.
Then, turning, he stretches
his elastic neck so that he
grows from three feet high
to four. Then, keeping his
head in precisely
the same place,
he moves
his body to the left --
to the west.
I don't know why. I guess
it's something blue heron do.