The sea calls out her name.
We answer,
trying to repeat the miracle
with a thousand hungry syllables
that scatter
on the pages of the tide
like undigested fish.
Again she calls and
a wild breaching
cracks the fragile bone
of the inner ear.
We mouth hollow sounds
to fill the dry space
between us.
We and the sea.
Relentless and reflective.
She is unmoved by our
literal bouts of naming,
yet we cannot stop calling out
while waves like glass
smash on the rocks
and are made whole
again and again.
In the distance
a blue heron
at large in flight
ungainly wing span
neck of necks
enigmatically looped
he lands at the edge
of reeds and mud
king of marshes
royal hunter of fishes
beak like a sword
he sights his prey
lengthens and thrusts
the elegant hose neck
majestic loner
of blue gray proportions.
Knowing full well
I am watching
he ignores me
on one leg
posed
for more important conquests.
As I approach
he fans his wings
lifts
and forgets me.
For a moment
I am lonelier
than I know,
receding,
my spirit unhooked
like a winded kite.
In the amnesia of insight
I write this
as if
you too
were hearing
the wings beat
the salt air
feeling the feathers
circle your throat
as the blue heron
leaves you
with this same unspeakable longing.
I suspect these words
are not enough,
slant and unstable as they are,
sodden with ink and overuse,
to thread my sight
through your eyes
to follow his flight
of hollow bones
and wet feathers.
All the same
I walk home
picking up words
like stones from a beach
placing them
in twos and threes
looking for a pattern
that speaks
this language.
janetngold 