The Blue Heron

Here on this industrial plain,
I saw the blue heron.
Straight as a stick bug,
treehistoric totem,
it watched, not the human made lake,
but traffic, trucks.
Two in a red pickup, slowed,  yelled out his name,
and he watched.
Under the pines, I snuck,
wishing I had brought
my long distance eyes,
as he
s-curled his neck right
down into his blue grey shoulders,
scratched his jaw, when I was
scratching mine.
He opened that scissors of a mouth
and tasted air, prodded feathers,
then pencil leg poked his way through the grass
to the restaurant pond's shore.
My wish for a blue feather,
wasn't enough to make him fly,
so I backed away from the wood chips, the log table,
to return to my inside job (a break only lasts so long),
Looking back, I didn't see him in the grass;
so I ran, skirted the geese hoping for a handout,
while I searched for mine.
One grey spray of that sky flier, fish spearer,
waited for me.
While I held it in my hand,
I saw him
watching me.
MaryAnn Bennett Rosberg