The Egret

This singular morning

Begins as any other

Three vivid apparitions

Pale nearly transparent

Two habitual and one

Ephemeral contradiction

Cross my way

The usual roiling white

Clouds rushing from

Or gathering for a storm

Just beyond either horizon

The usual moon a flimsy

Remnant a shift mislaid

In the night

Pallid in sunlight

Sheer against blue

And the egret more

Elusive strayed inland

From the Erie estuary

Feathers the complexion 

Of a drift of new snow

A miniature iceberg wandering

Up from Antarctica

Striking an elegant pose

Exotic 50s haute couture

Striding at the edge 

Of the pond patient for 

Delicious frog hors d’oeuvres

Takes flight its wings

As graceful and fluid as a doe 

Leaping through wheat – a thin

Model fleeing the runway

David Sapp

When I Want a Great Blue Heron

I peer at the river from the parallel trail. Crane my head to the left only to see great egret after great egret—massive white birds with necks like S’s. One will lift up effortlessly, take off with the wind, its yellow beak held high, its legs tucked in. With no pomp, no circumstance, they are suddenly in the air and in motion. Outstretched in time. I try to count, seven, eight, nine—there have to be more than ten trailing ovals along the river, mating after each other, white feather after white feather. The box turtles line up on logs, snuggled up to thirteen. Heads and tails indistinguishable from each other as they watch the dance unfold. Two Canadian geese fall from the sky with an obnoxious splash and a horrible honking. My heart skips a beat as I spot a flash of blue—the torso of the great blue heron stands stiller than a tree. Its long legs creep in the shallows, wading stoically through the muck and the algae. From the body of the great bird, a plop of yellow shoots into the water. The rushing current churns and mixes it in the muddy waters, and I remember all of the times that I have touched this river in wonder. The great bird, like a princess in a ballgown, is shitting on the dance floor. Yet it remains regal even in its own excrement. It notices me watching, but it does not care. Mallard ducks, their heads nestled into their own bodies, sleep on the log beside it. The electricity snaps in the heron’s brain, and in a single blink it has lunged down—caught a shining fish in its long black beak before swallowing it whole. I see the shape of the fish as it slides down its gullet. It inches closer on the log, waking the ducks, who fall awkwardly into the water below. My binoculars hang limply from my neck. I am still just the birdwatcher. Staring from afar, searching for some meaning in the air and the shit.

Emile River Sapp