A blue heron lands,
four-toed stilts trailing,
wings outstretched,
feathers spread like fingers
catching the right amount of air,
letting some pass
for a light landing.

In very few steps
it settles into its statue pose.
Little color – mostly gray,
hints of blue
sheltered along the wing edges,
a streak on its crown.
Only looking old,
a scruffiness sublime,
patience in spades.

This fall they seem abundant,
motionless in groups of
three or four to a mowed field,
disguised as twisted sticks
casting scant shadows.
I never see them reach for food.

 

Frank Babcock lives in Corvalis, Oregon and is a retired Albany middle school teacher and owner of a bamboo nursery. He writes poetry to share the strange thoughts that rattle around in his head and to get them off his mind. He started with an interest in the beatnik poets, Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg. He has a long way to go and much to write before he sleeps. Poems published in the local Advocate, Williwaw Journal, Panoplyzine and Bindweed Magazine.