In late winter they abjure their vocations to solitude, their empty brown beaches, their jagged black jetties, their silent green tides that ebb and flow
endlessly. The great blue herons assemble in the tall, thin air at the tops of the pines, where winds swell like a green river, where trees sway in a green tide
endlessly. Pair by pair, the herons build their nests. Stick by stick, hundreds of herons build their nests, lay their eggs, the generations ebbing and flowing
endlessly. Let us, then, for this little while.
For the sake of what’s to come.
In the swelling winds of want, in the green tides of plenty.
In this tall, thin air and
word by word:
a nest.
The sky, too, has great, blue wings, and endlessly;
we huddle beneath that blue breast.
Burlesque Press 