The Heron

 On this shoeless morning
   of wet grass and spider webs
   the river gentled along
A great blue heron paused
   in flight to land
   not fifteen feet from me and the water’s edge
neatly trimmed and silvered, but for that stripe
   of black plumage which ruffled in the breeze
   belying that ever-so-still countenance 
I held my breath
   watching this graceful prince armed 
   with his dagger-like bill of bright tangerine
One slow foot 
   then another towards
   the sodden grass until
The sudden strike
A lone salamander 
   shaken and gulped
Breakfast
   in the Delaware’s mist
A croaking of contented bliss broke
   the silence
   covering my quick inhale
   and then 
With the beating, beating, beating of his wings,
He rose above the river’s gentle summer current
   and soared north from Walpack
   silhouetted in the eastern light of morning
I walked until his cry
   and outline were but a hint of a shadow
   and only the gentle slaps of the river
could be heard