Desolation’s downfall
Now truly white a minus two
mid-January White River mostly frozen solid orders famished great blue herons
by dozens innate territoriality ignored forgotten for hours to stand sentinel-like
on ice as collapsed faded umbrellas fencing its western strand None shall fish
again until weather warmed water changes phase and coursing torrents but a foot
below shred the heron’s bitter platform forcing it down-stream Notice the clear
water not five hundred yards East Alas, greats somehow know their spearing
virtuosity vaunts no match to prey braving both such violent unrest and minus
two Relaying to you this chilling scene and conjuring herons from many dark
shapes I see at a quarter mile on a hazy day is a conceit Muse made it so from
the picture on my warm office window a painting full of loneliness hunger cold yet
completely full of hope and assurance that thaw will fly home after laboring in
March to climb slowly above a dark scrub-wood on the bank and soar away with this
fierce brief grievance come June.
