The herons came in for the night
the canes of their legs reaching ahead
into the trees their wings
ladling air for the landing

They quarreled in the voices of frogs
shuffled for position on the limbs
one discharging another into
the blue field of the evening

Wintering here they await
the call that will pull them
to the lunatic dance of their
coupling and the dependent

spandril to a next generation
All this at a vanishing point
where they must believe
there are still other waters

Beside me then you spoke of Siena
the great horse on the stage
the young girls singing in the tunnels
in a place I have never seen

The heart winters too in its season
There are rivers and moons
roosts for the night and the pull
of near-remembered distance

We watched until transforming dark
settled all argument in its indifferent
cloak and the birds became
pale fruit above the water





Copyright © 2017 Kirk Wilson