The night herons
Mourn. We accept the
Animal truth of ourselves
Circling the trampled
Marshland, how
It drained out the
Sallow fields of when-we-were-
Young. Lying in
Wait among the grain silos old and
Worn with the depth of storage
And winter crops. Calling
To the herons with blades of summer

How: I was told to be
Strong when I already
Had been.

The hunter cracks
And howls like his blue-shaded Hound,
The calling we used the
Calling of grass and
Hiding. I have never
Seen a nigh heron. Egrets,
Yes, from spanning bridges and such,
Drained marshland and
Childhood sawgrass.
They mourn. The hinter
Who mourns and his sober
Hound were young
As sparrows and fleet.
And swift. Once. A clapping
Of hidden wings a covered
Spot of fetid night---

Casting shadowed