The blue heron has been at the edge
of the pond all morning, stalking fish
with surreal patience, with the stillness
of a lawn ornament or my unmoving
body lying next to yours at night.
He makes no sound, just like us.
The fish does not know that the heron
is there, even though surely it could look up
and see what is so close.
The heron crouches low, just as I am
sometimes, as we are,
half of what could be.
Then the great bird sees what it wants,
its mouth plunges into the water and pulls
out the prize that will sustain its life.
The fish does not fight the inevitable.
The heron stands proudly upright to savor
the moment before swallowing the fish whole.