Milton Acorn

The great blue heron, common on the Island Is a refugee from dirty water, Not liking pollutants in the cold soup She fishes for nourishment and flavour.

Look at the way she stands, as jokers say With just one foot at a time in the water, Counting herself a delicate creature Subject to chills, although I've not seen her Shift her stance from one leg to another To disturb perfection in her figure Surreally drawn, as if with a few strokes.

The chatter and movement of other bird Sorts are not for her. Still as space she looks Between her toes for fish, and when she moves The lightning is more sudden than the stroke She makes, I guess. Or if dissatisfied With the place she's taken she takes up One limb by ineffable precision So that not a ripple is much altered Then puts it down, commences progression With attention to each carefully poised step.

Like I'm a tongue in the mouth of the wind; In my face or at my back it moves me, A mouse in its pocket, or a weasel According to what present song it sings, Low and limpid, high or hollowly. It's seven minutes now; I'm still grinning Since no breath opposes in all this whirlwind.

Let this my hide be brown sun gold. Let this My body make a melody in muscle, Elevated quick when love crooks her thumb To the exit that's an entrance to sky kingdoms. As long as any snuff of wind can tone a whistle To thrilled ears, I'm a note in that mad chant.

A little perfect owl, size of a sparrow But an owl by manner of intention I discerned in a flash on a wee branch As a seat in a vehicle bore me by. It had no doubts about being an owl I repeat, quite certain and casual.

To be what you are with no intention Or concept of being otherwise, With only the dimmest thoughts about that Is something of which I won't philosophize; There being too much made about that stuff: So much hyperbole about small truth: Lies shielded by poor refugees from bluff.