Dear Eric, I flew in down by the round deep pond behind your house. The grass there is long like my neck and high as my legs, and I could speak my own language which is silence. Shaking poems from beak and feathers, I walked in and out amongst the cattle, bird with beasts. And when you came walking, eyes just ahead of your feet, looking for something it seemed, I turned my head with a warning, watching you come through the grass. In midstep you saw me, seized by my look. You could not have borne me, closer. I lifted my wide white wings and broke into the air. No sorrow or silence of yours will bring me back. The Heron