He comes when the light is right,
banking the pond’s perimeter
to land and step into a statue’s stillness.
When the light is right the fish come in to feed,
feeling it safe to nose among the weeds,
to risk the proximity of feet, of legs
that rise like reeds to a distant body above.
Once I saw him come in heavy rain,
knowing it would roil the fisheye view.
I watched his neck–a question mark–release,
his beak harpoon a startled shape,
and saw it go head-first down the hatch.
Perfect hunger. Perfect hunter. Perfect prey.
I wait for the heron to come.
