All night the mocking bird sang its manic
song in the covert of the maple.
Lulled by the shunt and couple of freight trains
moving things from here to there
along the edge of the estuary
I thought about the night heron picking
her way with great patience among reeds
ticking in the wind.
The moon was full as a young mother’s breast.
Held in a cocoon of ease
like an animal with calm eyes, I kept watch
until light seeped
through the curtains and morning arrived
at the doorstep,
I yawned and stretched,
made sounds meaning hunger, thirst,
my life shook its mane,
found food among grasses painted on the bread box;
not once did I think of death, its hope
of a soft place to lie down.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 11
