Black Herons don't lose sight of themselves
in their navy colours or warlord crests
and chest plumage that is shaken
in panics of lust for little blue eggs
that will be cultured and raised
with the same vampiric manners.
They don't apologise or
have existential crises,
they don't experience shame,
they don't knead their hands
in desperate attempts to explain.
Cloaks thrust wide
when they circle their night,
their umbrellas offer up no shelter
when it is they who are the rain.
These lampshades throw out
no light, their cover to harpoon
the false safety of small fishes
in the stab of a wielded beak.
When did we become these Halloween birds,
our blades in the shadows.
I don't know if we should go on or turn back
when very little is what it seems,
though we are watched by the Fever Trees
who in witness to these daylight machinations,
hiss their feathery leaves and tell their bark
to show us the distorted reflections
of all this in the winds and twists of our dreams.
Image is from Wikimedia Commons: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Flickr_-_Rainbirder_-_Black_Egret_(Egretta_ardesiaca).jpg