The Heron

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.