I heart Herons

      Some Herons by Mary Oliver

A blue preacher

flew toward the swamp,

in slow motion.

On the leafy banks,

an old Chinese poet,

hunched in the white gown of his wings,

was waiting.

The water was the kind of dark silk

that has silver lines

shot through it

when it is touched by the wind

or is splashed upward,

in a small, quick flower,

by the life beneath it.

The preacher

made his difficult landing,

his skirts up around his knees.

The poet's eyes

flared, just as a poet's eyes

are said to do

when the poet is awakened

from the forest of meditation.

It was summer.

It was only a few moments past the sun's rising,

which meant that the whole long sweet day

lay before them.

They greeted each other,

rumpling their gowns for an instant,

and then smoothing them.

They entered the water,

and instantly two more herons-

equally as beautiful-

joined them and stood just beneath them

in the black, polished water

where they fished, all day.