The Night Heron

(for my dear friend, Jeremy Nathan Marks, a poet of mind-boggling talent, 
for whom this poem has been promised for far too long, though not so 
long perhaps as the lives of poems go...they are ancient things, even 
the young ones, and as Memory is my negative Muse, I can not recall 
exactly where or when this piece began, except that I know it began 
in one of the many enriching conversations I have had with this man.) 




The Night Heron


the night heron stands 
silent as the sea
refuses the sun.

shorebirds' shadows fall 
on deafness like lids.

the sun speaks and you 
see the stars.  the wind 
tells your stories in 
voices of the night.

you hear.  you listen.

you find your roots in 
the reaching branches 
beneath still waters.

broken reeds whistle
a hollow tune in 
the wind and chatter 
like bones in the breeze. 

a clap, and you fly, 
pulling long legs from 
the water dripping
behind you, lighter 
than any great blue,
heavier than light.

we search the sky for 
fish while our branches 
blow in air.  we stand 
knee-deep in wetness
while all the life, all 
the time, is right here.

this song sings itself 
in the sun.  undone things 
thunder as one while 
the elders look on 
mutely and mourn the 
lost morning of man.

this work will never 
be done.  this song can 
never be un-sung.