Our resident great blue heron, fishing at the creek. We've seen a pair nesting at a neighbor's tank (Texans' word for pond), on a great mass of untidy sticks and small branches. They also fish at an adjacent small lake and fly home over our meadow in the evening, great wings pale against the dusky sky. A lovely, graceful bird, tall, around four feet. He is an expert feeder, standing still as a statue in shallow water or among the weeds on the bank, all attention, while his prey (a small fish, an unwary crawdad, a snake, an indiscreet grasshopper) forgets that he has arrived and come within reach. With one swift, splendid move, he impales it with his murderous beak and down it goes, to become heron.
It is a negligence of the mind
not to notice how at dusk
heron comes to the pond and
stands there in his death robes, perfect
servant of the system, hungry, his eyes
full of attention, his wings