I come upon her in the park poised on slender thread of leg,
the other tucked away discreetly underneath a slaty plume of feathers.
Flawless as a Calder stabile made of silver wire though I am close enough to see
the pulsing of her tender throat.

He is also watching. Inching closer gripping blades of grass while skittering on his knees.
Wild grasses partly shield him as he crouches with a glance toward me, a finger to his lips.
She slightly shifts her head toward us wary of this motion in the marsh.

Swiftly he leaps forward, is running now, a net of knotted threads
clenched in one hand contriving to entrap.
And this blue heron sure of purpose lifts her stately head into a sky of amaranth,
spreads her wings like brushstrokes of great drama, and shimmers out of sight.