After day’s serrated gash of altercation
has made its stab-inflected rant; after time wasted
in a digital ague, lost in punch-drunk argument
with toxic heads, I must go out walking.

I plant my angst near where the heron lands, folds its wings,
then stands in stillness. It waits beside the ripples of the pond.
Here: exhaled light makes rushes quiver. There: an insect
shiver on its surface: mute and yet midge music.

Dusk unfolds along the water. I pause,
hearing everything but sorrow: frog hopped
burp-song, calls of cardinal, keening hawk,
antiphony of intermittent cricket and cicada.

Inside my chest, a door opens.
By this pond-sheened curve of trees and sunset
cloud, I hush. I let quietude creep closer, a wild thing nosing
at my heart. It turns three times before it settles into breath.

Today, I’ve been a broken bell, a bark-stripped branch,
a shell mislaid from sand. Oh, Heron, lift my spirit.
Make me reverberation. Flow my breath to forest,
a spiral shaping song. For what is prayer

but longing given wings?