by Cindy Veach
Years ago, before I ended my long marriage,
I saw a bird, hunched, a bird unknown to me,
near the creek in our front yard. I saw it catch
and swallow a snake which tried to escape
but the bird insisted and gulp by gulp inched the prey
down its throat. Stocky, broody, a heron without the allure
of the long-legged, long necked Great Blue. A heron
whose call is a bark, whose bill crushes a crustacean
in seconds. A bird who’ll care for anyone’s chicks,
who is dominated by other herons and egrets in the day
and hunts at night with light-gathering red eyes.
I see you high up on a branch waiting for nightfall.
I see you still fishing at the water's edge, patient, persistent.
With one lightning-quick thrust of your beak you sever
a crab’s pincers, take what you need without apology.
Cindy Veach is the author of three poetry collections: Monster Galaxy (MoonPath Press), Her Kind (CavanKerry Press) an Eric Hoffer Montaigne Medal finalist and Gloved Against Blood (CavanKerry Press) a Paterson Poetry Prize finalist and Massachusetts Center for the Book ‘Must Read.’ She is poetry co-editor of MER.