A heron will not eat a moving meal,
preferring instead the cold and motionless
taste of the freshly dead; an eel unwriggled.
Moon-grey, frocked as a Victorian governess,
in treetops there are planetary eggs
who will soon demand their fill.
Here, in this vigil, disguised as stillness,
the silence holds its violence close -
I have seen it arrange itself
as a heaviness of mist, felt the weight
of its grief descend, the constriction of an eye
until a spear of beak breaks the water,
a living statue snaps its bill
and digests the universe.
Image from pixabay, also on Twitter: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Faustino_Bocchi_-_Landscape_with_heron.jpg