wings strive toward
the wind; see how the clasp of
nothing takes her in
Heron Rises From The Dark, Summer Pond by Mary Oliver (Grand Central Publishing: New York, 2003).
So heavy
is the long-necked, long-bodied heron,
always it is a surprise
when her smoke-colored wings
open
and she turns
from the thick water,
from the black sticks
of the summer pond,
and slowly
rises into the air
and is gone.
Then, not for the first or the last time,
I take the deep breath
of happiness, and I think
how unlikely it is
that death is a hole in the ground,
how improbable
that ascension is not possible,
though everything seems so inert, so nailed
back into itself–
the muskrat and his lumpy lodge,
the turtle,
the fallen gate.
And especially it is wonderful
that the summers are long
and the ponds so dark and so many,
and therefore it isn’t a miracle
but the common thing,
this decision,
this trailing of the long legs in the water,
this opening up of the heavy body
into a new life: see how the sudden
gray-blue sheets of her wings
strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing
takes her in.
We live a short walk from what is called the Broad Creek Marina.
A small dock, on a winding tidal salt marsh estuary that cuts deep into Hilton Head Island.
It functions as an inlet where ocean tides ebb and flow, creating a vibrant aquatic hub for recreation, boating, and wildlife.
We got on the dock of the marina the other to find this guy keeping an eye on us and other things.
And especially it is wonderful
that the summers are long
and the ponds so dark and so many,
and therefore it isn’t a miracle
but the common thing,
this decision,
this trailing of the long legs in the water,
this opening up of the heavy body
into a new life: see how the sudden
gray-blue sheets of her wings
strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing
takes her in.
Love that line, the clasp of … nothing.
