She brought her son to see
the heron she’d been told
frequented the wetland.
She’d heard how it stepped
like a drum major, knees bent
and unbent in precisely-
measured steps.
She’d heard you could watch
the heron wait for a fish
to swim by, could see him
snatch it, lift it out of the water
in its beak, swallow it whole.

Come, she said to the boy,
and they walked in silence
around the pond so as not
to scare the big bird away.
But heron did not come,
only a gaggle of squawking geese.
Let’s go, she said, but her son
clapped his hands as he watched
the geese land, rippling the water.
He laughed at their raucous noise,
then spread his wings and flew
down the path. His mother
laughed and followed.


© by Wilda Morris.
Used with the author’s permission.