by Sandy Weisman

I get up to row on the river.
My scull glides to the gloomy
edge of the water
thick with spent lilies.
A great blue heron balancing
on bamboo legs, raises one knee
like a hinge, decides not to go forward,
stares at me from a solid black eye,
takes flight, takes my words with it.
I am the emptied skyline,
that gray-blue body
an erasure in the hardly-lit sky.