The heron appears disinterested, wise,
affecting not to care every morning
each time a fisherman comes at sunrise
to sit on the wharf and fish. The heron
 
faces out to sea like the man, leans in
like a sportscaster, sidling closer to see
the game. His s-shaped, serious posture
echoes the man’s backward baseball cap
 
which shades his own neck. The two
follow the curve of the line, its arc into
the tugging splash, the Venus out of foam
that a fish is. And then the man
 
decides the fish’s fate. Either back to the sea
or in the closer quarters of the metal pail.
Once we saw another fisherman kindly toss
a fish to the patient animal.
 
The heron stands straight, parallel to
the man. This bird will not beg.
He’s Cool Hand Luke, more gambler than
conniver. A model, maybe,
 
of the need to stay calm.
But then when this impervious fisherman
packs up, leaves, the heron takes off too.
Wings spread, banking, he finally breaks
 
his silence. He calls out to something—his cry
so rough and loud that I wonder, was he disappointed
after all? Or is that scratchy wail
the whoop it takes to catch a current and sail?

LaWanda Walters

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