A great blue heron wading in tall grass
jointed knees turned cleverly backwards
no hurry to its stroll
an old man in a gray overcoat lost in thought
What offerings does the grass hold
lush from so much rain
frogs or gopher drowned in its hole
the heron shrinks back when I move closer
its neck folding to a sinuous S
then straightening for the lift away
kite stick legs folded
wings spread
I think of my friend gone a month now
how he watched the sky so faithfully
lights in the darkness
satellites meteors shifting stars
how we are always looking up
longing for that lift
higher air
clarity just out of reach
and wings to carry us there
how once when the world was new
sorting us into species
we might have been birds
—
Frances Davis is an essayist and poet whose and work has been published in the L.A. Times, New Verse News, Calyx, The Chattahoochee Review, The Vincent Brothers Review, Reed Magazine, Passager, The Hopper, and several anthologies. She is a winner of the Lamar York prize York prize for nonfiction and a Pushcart Prize nominee.
