We’d go mad without them.
I’m convinced of this. Convinced
that what keeps us sane in this city
where exhaust sutures our bones
is the warped arms of oaks, the child
rushing toward the carp-stocked pond
with hands full of stale bread. But most of all
it is the heron standing in the middle
of the pond as if comfortable
in her solitude, as if even now, wading
in an oil slick, a beer bottle sailing
for the open port of her talons,
she still believes in blue water.