Eyehook heron hung between
     being and not being,
     he spikes the water real;
     he is
     too bird; too far; too spare; too hard (too hard)
     to let mist tolerate him long.
     And so the night.

     Deadhead into dayness, peering 
     over blind horizons that I cannot see
     and he cannot care
     about.

     Eyeless, I
     Grok.

     Heron waits,
     watching his feet
     dissolve,
     and focus stillness' silent song.

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett