She is a most beautiful being,
her flux of melancholy and feathery joy
obscured by sympathetic trees.
A cry of lonely
as she parachutes off the ravine
taking flight at that deepest moment of night
to an estranged island for one
her porcelain eyes wide, innocence rising
out of darkening silence.
The mother waits in ordinary dress
for her shypoke. This has gone on for some time
the mother peeking through trees, hoping.
Night Heron has learned to trust edges of shore
lingering there at times
legs half in
half out of water
and once, she found her way home.