The herons are preliminary
Scrawls, penciled faint against the sky,
Most with their bodies tilted at forty-five
Degrees to the imaginary
Horizon at the vanishing point,
Gliding in on barely discernible arcs;
Two are turning and curling their wings
In gestures of beckoning, invitation.
See now? Blades of marsh grass, one by one,
Lifted by the evening breeze from the sea,
Turn the colour of just-cooled iron
And fall, each severing its shadow.
Do the cattails waver? Do they gasp, or
Sigh as darkness bleeds over everything?