The Heronry. Mark Jarman
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Tall blades of tufted grasses, keep on flowing.
Towhees like good ideas, keep on flowing.
Pooled water, black in shadow, green in sunshine,
with wild olives bending down to drink,
those figures coming daily to the bridge
to look at their two shadows on your surface,
keep them returning, keep them coming back.
Outward Bound
As when, on the interstate in the country,
you have to pull over and stop
and get out to change drivers, the hurtling forward
stops and the day opens as the car door opens,
and you are no longer moving but still, as the day moves around you,
and you see just how fast everyone else is going,
and you decide either to enjoy the field beside you, your back to the traffic,
or quickly as possible get the car going again:
So, leaving the rush of private thoughts is also
like entering an open stillness. A great halt occurs.
Someone else, talking, removes you from the inner pressure,
and either you can enjoy the release, like a field of sunflowers,
or hurry to break off
and rejoin the mental traveling that speeds you away.
The Heronry
After a year of too much face time,
I came where I could choose, instead of people,
birds and their slant gaze, water, trees and clouds,
the gossip and confidences of cat’s-paw breezes
across the face of a lagoon.
I knew the place was the byproduct of money.
I knew it was peace that the state had paid for—
though only a few who knew about it prospered.
There was a bench in the sun that looked out over the shallows,
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