Heron poised in the dream of dawn,
Reedy-legged watcher stock still,
Hunter with an observant eye,
So silent you question his soul.
For his survival some must die:
Reaper of minnow, fledgling, vole.
To them he must seem lofty, high:
Dispatching warrants from God's quill.
Darker in plumage than the swan,
Grace of the lake sent out to glide:
Drawing the crowd to let him hide.
But now the moon still stalks the sky,
Catching the dew-drops not yet gone;
By waters-edge he takes his spot,
In cruel silence surveys his lot,
Praying the sun absolves his will.
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