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 prayerbut longing given wings?
Heron Dusk by Alison Hurwitz | Lemon Poetry Reed Diffuser
Alison Hurwitz is a former cellist/dancer who finds music in language. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, Alison hosts the monthly online reading, Well-Versed Words. Published in South Dakota Review, Sky Island Journal, SWWIM and others, her work is forthcoming in The Amethyst Review and RockPaperPoem. When not writing, Alison officiates weddings and memorials, hikes, and dances in her kitchen with her family. Find her at alisonhurwitz.com
