NOVEMBER 2018 • NEBRASKAland 35
The Heron Is My Mother
There is stillness on the creek
below the footbridge where I stand,
though the water moves and leaves
bend in the wind along its banks
while birds cling to branches.
Today, in mist, I can barely see the heron
farther down, standing in the dark shallows,
a creek formed from others running into it,
then flowing together to cut its steep banks,
covering them with grass.
The heron
waits patient for the next small morsel
to nourish her, for the unfathomable signal
when she will gather her wings and disappear.
No matter how much I cry out to her,
she cannot hear.
Nor will she hesitate,
even when her eye catches mine
now so far in the distance. It will be
her time, and she will simply leave.
(first published in South Dakota Review)
PHOT PHOT PHOT PHOT PH
O
BY
O
BY
O
BY
O
BY
CHR CHR CHR CHRIS
M
IS
M
IS
M
IS
M
S
M
S
M
S
MASAD
ASAD ASAD ASAD ASAD ASAD ASAD ASAD
ADA
