He stands
on an oyster shell-encrusted rock
at low tide in this protected bay,
barely a breath of wind,
safely surrounded by a shallow moat,

while I, a respectful distance away,
perch on my own rock and watch him
dig that long, sharp bill under a wing,
tending what needs tending.

A sizable flock of Canada geese
on their home turf slowly paddles by
the heron’s perch, a respectful, silent
audience pausing momentarily,
uninterested in me.

I sit here at midday, close enough
to see the blue patch on the master’s wings,
the dark horizontal mask running from his eye
to the back of his head, as his chest feathers
splay like a flapper’s fringe.

Last evening two dear ones and I
stood on a walkway for humans above
the high waterline, my present perch
invisible then, deep underwater.

Now, except for shallow pools between
the barnacled rocks, you’d never suspect
this area was inundated 15 hours ago.

Nearly everything has dried out,
including the heron, standing on one
foot, the other foot working over his
beak like a chef sharpening a knife,
a masterful bit of balance few humans
could manage.

Such grace in the ordinariness of self-care,
in the everydayness of twice-a-day tides,
as the heron, safe and dry,
elongates his neck full periscope,
swiveling his head to survey
his kingdom, as his acolytes
surround him.

Then, as this white-cloaked priest
bows his head,
I do, too.

•••

(Click on photo to enlarge it!)