The heron’s silhouette is darker than the gloamy pond
She hides although she doesn’t know I’m there
I pause to watch her, there between the fronds
Midst dissolving cattails lost to nighttime’s air
She holds one foot aloft, an interrupted step
Damp feathers cloathe her flanks in chilly swathes
Her spear, her beak is ready as she stands
She waits so patiently she waits
And there! She catches one at last
In almost dark she’s found her meal
Across the pond with empty hands I clap
The nighttime air – this is her joy I feel.
How easily I share her win – success won patiently.
I push all thought of shadowed fishes’ terror out of me.
Kay Newhouse is a new poet who loves the parallels between improvisational partner dancing and creative writing, and the way an urge towards community shows up in all our nooks & crannies if we let it. @KayWCS