qarrtsiluni

by the willow, where fish
freeze in the dark shadow
of cascading green.
Be still cry the gills.

The heron tilts its head
watching for a ripple,
some sign, a reward
for careful scrutiny.

This bird is an anomaly
on the Ivy River,
too far north and more familiar
with sea marsh or estuary.

An albino great blue perhaps
but exotic in any case
here where the river twines
through old rock.

This day when the radio hawks

war war

the heron pauses on yellow legs
and eyes the shallows
for the sustenance it knows
is there.

by Christina Pacosz

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