Heron

Standing still enough it becomes invisible.

It has one eye always on me and I hold it
for as long as seems possible.
Even when I blink I do not look away.

Maybe it is invisible, it is still there.

A stretch of navigable river moves between us.
The wind moves between us too, but quietly.

It can see me, but I can barely see it anymore:
there on the bank, beside a scrabble of dimming
greenery, thorns and bramble, grey and still.

*

The wind turns chill and I pocket my hands,
tuck away my observations and leave
the spear-straight beak, the eye that doesn’t blink.

Mind and heart are silent now,
out of respect for the heron perhaps,
and yet I know that before I stopped
something unique and immovable
was lodged inside me, troubling me.

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