The Heron
All the lakes
diminished
by an irrational summer
and even this made pond
its aorta a creek
that brings its blood
from somewhere under the highway
has shrunk, deceptive green
where perch swam,
ducks begged, and geese waited
to torture joggers.
A heron is hiding
in the yellowing grass,
at the bank. Her pale gray feathers
her thin, unsure neck,
her small eyes,
remind me of an old woman
alone in her assisted living room
too lonely for television
waiting for a dinner of cold fish.
*
Michael Neal Morris has published several stories, poems, and essays in print and online. His most recent books are Based on Imaginary Events (Faerie Treehouse Press), Haiku, Etc., and The Way of Weakness. He lives with his family just outside the Dallas area and teaches Composition and Creative Writing at Dallas College’s Eastfield campus.
