Classic Poem

Little Blue Heron, young, still white,
by the north causeway bridge--
stick legs, too thin
for the swelling body,
the visual weight of feathers,
stepping slowly in shallow water,
long toes trailing limply, then
extending, three splayed forward,
one back. Brilliant neck
curving, poised. Dagger beak
the same gray as legs and toes.
Why is nature beautiful?
The lust for pattern, Peter said.
The heron's head rose and twisted,
circular eye, light brown, orange
rimmed, ancient intelligence
asking a different question.
I was unmoving, not dangerous.
The heron turned to hunt,
brush, a cloud above the river.

New Smyrna Beach,
Florida