The truth is I do not believe
in magic,
miracles,
ghosts, souls--
all that jazz.
Yet when a hundred herons
sitting still
on the edge of the shore
suddenly rise as one
in a blur of down moving
in slow, slow beats
blocking sky in their storm
of snow,
I do, yes,
yes I do
sense wings move in me.
I do
feel a swooping down
from clifftops.
I do
feel my body in that updraft
soaring
toward the moon
and what is left
of me
on this empty beach
is but a tiny cloud,
a mere idea
on which good fortune dusts
a sweet, sweet down.
