11 hours ago
Blue Herons
The world used to be charged with grandeur, some
of which was even God’s, the bisoned plain,
the clouds like artifacts tracking their progress
through men’s eyes, hollowed bones and strings
of endless generation, hills that shimmer
when the wind waves grain across their faces
as a mother folds her cub away
from cliffs as stark as milk—not any more
than seconds in the cosmic memory,
our scampering about between the legs
of taller trees, and still whatever lake
we launched a boat across to get here breaks
each morning with a shattering of wings
too loud for us to notice or ignore.
The world used to be charged with grandeur, some
of which was even God’s, the bisoned plain,
the clouds like artifacts tracking their progress
through men’s eyes, hollowed bones and strings
of endless generation, hills that shimmer
when the wind waves grain across their faces
as a mother folds her cub away
from cliffs as stark as milk—not any more
than seconds in the cosmic memory,
our scampering about between the legs
of taller trees, and still whatever lake
we launched a boat across to get here breaks
each morning with a shattering of wings
too loud for us to notice or ignore.