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 |