Unexpected

I did not know what it was, the broad moving shadow over my shoulder. But the wide arc of wings became clear, then the gray-blue feathers. It was like a mountain landing, a canyon settling, an entire pine forest coming to rest. I had never seen a heron that close, so I looked at him for a while, while Nikki kicked at stones on the bank of the Cuyahoga, and watched me watching him.

What I decided for him, must be true for me too. I do not write language poems; I do link the universal to the personal. I am a simple person writing on a two-lane bridge.

I want to fly. I want to fly in a way that makes people turn their heads and marvel. I want to know which perch to call home for a while. I want to stand there, so at ease, my barrel chest is exposed. I want to be still. I want to be able to tuck all of the largeness in and be small too. I want to know that I can stand on one thin leg, when the other is not available. I want to wear the cloak of soft blue sky. I want to seek running water. I want my eyes to be alert, while the rest of me rests calm.

A blue Heron is within me. I do not know what is within you. A pinking sky in New Mexico. A thick boulder at the bottom of a waterfall. An acorn cap turned to the rain. All I know is that there is heron in me, and it is perfectly fine – I give myself permission—to abandoned my human brain for hollow bones. For sharp beak. For sweeping wings that use the sky to fly.