I saw crows studding the edges of a crumbling pier
from a derelict bridge, long rotted away.
They looked like black iron pipes bent over
as they hunched against the drizzle,
and the weight of the fog.
A clearing in the center of the circle of crows
seemed to wait for something,
and I saw through the eyes of story,
behind my eyes.
A Great Blue Heron dropped,
as a heavier feathery fog,
onto the center of the pylon.
He appeared at first to hunch down
in the midst of the crows,
until he balanced through his descent,
and his body rose up again,
all the great length of his legs.
Stretching up, he lifted first his body,
then his opened wings,
to embrace and caress the mist.
Then his neck pulled higher and higher,
drawing before it that great arrow force
that is cartilage and beak.
Raised high, stretched to look up,
he opened his mouth to its widest,
brought to bear every muscle fiber in his gaping beak –
And he clapped.
“Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord!”
