The Blue Heron:

Mist, like ghosts,

Drifts off the lake,

Shrouding boats,

Riding their wake.

Slowly, but steadily,

Like slugs up a wall,

Fish swim to the melody,

Of deep, red Fall.

He waits, waits, waits,

Like the stalk-still reeds,

And he hates, hates, hates,

The slightest breeze,

That breaks the glassy lake,

Thus fogging up his chance,

To cure his belly ache,

With a stab of his lance.

And so he's staring, staring, staring,

At the surface 'till it clears,

'Cause he's a blue heron, heron, heron,

And it's patience, the still lake mirrors.