The corn is harvested.
Cut stalks stub into the cold rain.
And you, blue heron, though a tall bird,
though ancient as the earth, seem small
gliding over the flesh-colored field.
Your papery lungs inhale
gray wind. Edging the field,
fickle twists of dark trees dwarf you,
your winter plans all but lost
in this immense slate sky
inscribed by your many blue quills.
Words disappear before we can translate,
before we can wave our small goodbye.