The Heron

When tension knots itself

round my neck

like the world’s least-wanted

scarf,

I go to the river.

I stand on the bridge

staring down

until the tension

falls

and the blue-brown water

carries it away

with the yellow leaves.

I saw a heron there once.

I didn’t realize

what it was

at first.

I had met ravens

the size of cats,

but never a heron.

When I approached,

its beady orange eye

watched.

Frightened? Or wary?

I didn’t know. I wanted to.

I went back to the bridge.

To the next stranger to cross,

I said,

Look.

He looked,

and his eyes got huge

with wonder.