The soft sound of the
great blue heron
as it lands upright
in a curve on Marrowbone Creek.
The wet slate serves 
as an altar,
wings folded in prayer.

A time to forage,
measured in the crystal current,
looking upward as if to hear
the lilting song of some angel.
It waits in silence.
A quick thrust,  it
finds a meal and 
takes off gently in flight.