Where.

THE BLUE

heron is gray, not blue, but great enough

against brown-tipped bowed cattails to be

well-named, is known for its stealth, shier

than a cloud, but won’t fly or float away

when it’s scared, stands there thinking maybe

it’s invisible though it’s not—tall, gray,

straight as a pole among the cloudy reeds.

 

Then it picks up one stem leg. This takes time.

And sets it down just beyond the other,

no splash, breath of a ripple, goes on

slowly across the silt, mud, algae-

throttled surface, through sedge grass,

to stand to its knees in water turning

grayer now that afternoon is evening.

 

Now that afternoon is evening

the gray heron turns blue, bluer than sky,

bluer than the mercury blue-black still pond.

So when did it snag the bullfrog

hanging, kicking, in its scissor beak?

To look so long means to miss the sudden.

It strides around like a sleek cat

 

from pond to bank and back, blue tall bird,

washing the frog, banging it against stones,

pecking almost as if it doesn’t know

what to do now that it’s caught such a thing.

How fast its beak must be to shoot out

like an arrow or that certain—as it’s called—

slant of light. Blue light. Where did it go?

David Baker

Thank you, Dr. Baker.