When I saw the heron standing up to its spindleshins in mud
where the lake's deep water yesterday caught the light
and cracked it into a scatter of small flames, each fragment
of fractured mirror gripping a coloured shard of sky or leaf
or the glancing glimpse of a wing flapping over (taupe
for a goose, stony bluegrey a heron, various shades of white
the gulls), when I saw this statued heron, light burning its beak
to an aluminum triangle, a tapered hammerhead of glass,
it could have been the sign I was searching for: a solitary creature
dealing with this unsettled set of fresh conditions, not stuck
in the mud but surrounded by it, trying to draw something
to live by from it, some surprise live morsel that would make
survival possible. So I walked the bank and looked at it
from every angle, hoping to winkle a hint or two to help
shed any ray of light on things. But it just stood hunched,
ruffling once, twice, its shoulder feathers, the gleam of its beak
flashing back unreadable semaphore. I imagined its keen eyes'
amber, their fixed gaze, and that it was not at ease, but patient.