I’m pulling out of a station
I used to label, smug and stuck.
An array of potions, amping up
liquids while my nose, red and
raw, seeps with deep healing.
Eyes on the great blue heron,
unseen for weeks. He’s poised
on my periphery, just on the edge
of sight, so I lean slowly.
Camouflaged at the threshold
of brown grasses, dirty white
riprap and trees still greening
the water. He creeps out of sight.
I must adjust my chair to
track, sneezing behind windows.
A spider in her web, waiting,
or a specter stumbling across
realities, a danger in every
sense. Morning sun kissing lake:
how green the blue. He turns
to step directly into his
shadow, the way of all healing,
graceful in his necessary poise.
I’m watching like these waters,
shimmering and simmering from
currents far below the still air.