The Heron’s Roost
Slack tide, the sand bar stretches out of sight.
Gray weather, not a sail in sight;
the wind has dropped.
Pale light draws me to the horizon.
There is an error in the smooth green line
Where the arrow should pierce the sky,
Telling the sailor
“Look for the herons’ roost,
Anchor here and rest.”
But the great tree crashed in the hurricane.
The herons have scattered.
Somewhere else in the bay the gray forms float in,
Stretch long legs and settle in the tree tops.
But here they will not come again.
On seeing “On The Bay” of Jeri Eisenberg