Here’s a poem from my days in Maine that was first published in 1991 in a small literary magazine in Troy, Maine, called “Potato Eyes.”—PM

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Maine Heron

A blue heron waits an hour,

Shows patient power

In a one-man soup line,

Disregards time

In favor of a single mind—

The key to catching fish.

The heron squawks,

Shoves off with awkward grace,

Gawking into flight,

Pole legs folding,

Kite wings holding,

Then uncranking

Like awnings,

Whacking light wind

Past feathers like

Blue-gray saw-toothed fringe.

The heron stands like a sinister old goat,

A crook in an overcoat—

Chin tucked in,

Legs stem-thin,

Skinny neck, collar up close

To a frown and long nose—

Stuck in the mud in a standing doze.

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—Paul Marion (c) 1991, 2010