Heron

a memory vignette & a poem

Photo by John H Rhodes on Unsplash

The heron stood at the pond’s edge as if he had been waiting for me to arrive.

Not watching me, but waiting. That’s what struck me first. The twilight had slipped into that blue-grey hour when the world softens its boundaries, and my body, aching in its familiar ways, had urged me out for a walk. I hadn’t meant to go far, just enough to let my breath settle into its rhythm, the way it always does near open fields.

But there he was.

A great blue, taller and closer than I’d ever seen one, poised among the exposed roots of the black willow like part of the tree itself. I’ve walked these fields and ponds for years, long enough to know every bend in the well-worn paths and every shift in the waterline, and yet I had never seen him moored there. Not once.

For a heartbeat he didn’t move and neither did I. The air between us widened, the way it does before a truth surfaces. He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, the kind of motion that feels less like instinct and more like recognition.

There was something in the moment, not mystical, not dramatic, just a subtle joining. It felt as if the heron had stepped out of the water holding a question meant just for me, or perhaps holding one of mine that I had dropped along the path.

A longing rose in my throat, an audible and physical unbidden crackling of breath and fluid. He must have sensed it, because instead of lifting into immediate flight, he stayed—just long enough for the space between our breaths to match.

When he finally spread his wings, that slow, persistent rise and fall of feathers and tendons and weight, he didn’t disappear. He traced a wide arc over the pond, circled once, then vanished into the dimming fields.

I wrote it all down in my notebook and then, over time, it became a poem. The memory haunts me to this day, still. I hope you enjoy it.

---

Heron


Last night I walked the fields after dusk.
One rain drop fell, and as I neared 
the gravel path between ponds 
came another and another.

My heart will not wait for better weather,
for the brush of waist-high grasses,
nor the moon to throw its polished grain
on the rain-rippled water, nor an oscillating wind
to rouse wet field.

There is comfort in the walking—the in and out
of my breath. . . a rest in the long spaces.

A great blue heron appears at the edge of pond, moored
at the exposed roots of a willow. The banks are low
despite all the rain. Years of walking these paths
I have never seen him here before. I am alone and lonely.
He senses me, takes flight and disappears—that slow,
persistent rise and fall of wings.

I am working on a longer piece to share when its done. Fiction! Looking forward to sharing it with you. The past few months have been a time of real learning and adjusting to new normals as I navigate some health challenges. Writing is a great solace, something productive and meaningful, and I am grateful for this space to share my words. Thank you so much for being here.

Chin up, boots on.

Kateri

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