When the eleven egrets rose
over the river bend, green shrubs
even a droughty river holds—
just as the flock had a week before,
right before he saw the small Washita,
a white triangle in the pea gravel—
he might have, had he believed
in omens, egret deities, or other magic,
thought himself lucky, looked
for another point, that moment,
at his feet. Instead, he was only
gladdened. All day he saw
gravel and minnows, light
on the water. Only later,
moving back upriver,
did he indulge his foolishness,
cursing, almost aloud, the day’s
heat, the barrenness of the river.
He saw again the ungainly grace
of wading egrets lifting in late
afternoon’s sallow light. Their blessing
had been real. “Walk slowly, look hard
in the small gravel. Move on.”
~ William Sheldon
William Sheldon lives with his family in Hutchinson, Kansas. His poetry and prose have appeared widely in small press publications. He is the author of three collections of poetry, Retrieving Old Bones (Woodley, 2002), Into Distant Grass (Oil Hill Press, 2009), and Rain Comes Riding (Mammoth, 2011).
Superb, Bill. I love its quiet power.
I have often wondered what primeval message herons carry.
Aren’t we lucky to have so many very fine poets in Kansas and the Kansas City area.
Thanks Bill, not just for this beautiful poem (from a poet who knows his wildlife), but for all your work.
Lovely. Reminds me of my dad who walked creed beks, and plowed fields and collected arrow heads, mastodon teeth, and other wonders. “Look,” he’d tell me. “It’s right there in that gravel.” I am finally beginning to learn how to see.