Great Blue Heron

I drive past him each day in the swamp where he stands on one leg, hunched as if dreaming of his own form the surface reflects. Often I nearly forget to turn left, buy fish and wine, be home in time to cook and chill. Today the bird stays with me, as if I am moving through the heron’s dream to share his sky or water—places he will rise into on slow flapping wings or where his long bill darts to catch unwary frogs. I’ve seen his slate blue feathers lift him as dangling legs fold back, I’ve seen him fly through the dying sun and out again, entering night, entering my own sleep. I only know this bird by a name we’ve wrapped him in, and when I stand on my porch, fish in the broiler, wine glass sweating against my palm, glint of sailboats tacking home on dusky water, I try to imagine him slowly descending to his nest, wise as he was or ever will be, filling each moment with that moment’s act or silence, and the evening folds itself around me.