Heron

In Gray Marsh, on my way home, sunset smeared
above the trees, a great blue heron stepped
in shallow water, but when I appeared
by needlerushes near the path, he stopped.

The Choptank started boiling, white bursts over
the surface with its agitated light:
clustered eruptions, bubbling on the river
as catfish rose, lunging with appetite.

The heron, taking big slow steps, moved down
the riverbank, away from rollicking fish
you'd think would interest him as a real boon.
He waded, courting darkness, in no rush

to make his way, searching for what could be
a trap with no bait but tranquillity.

Copyright © 2003 John Drury All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission