Herons in the morning light

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[Poem just published in the current edition of the Australian Poetry Journal, 6.1. ‘Dorpers’ are a breed of sheep. Shot of light on our farm dam.]

Herons in the morning light

Dawn’s rosy-fingered kitsch intimates evening’s in time’s mind
as you rise to find your mouth set in an unusual smile

& shadows of the old unshaven guy in The Milagro Beanfields War
(Thank you Lord for another day!), aware of movies & death

as one is these days, & two herons do their Zen elegance thing east
across the dark dam, wings gently rising & falling

like the economic data on the evening news (after all, you think,
who’s ever seen a heron crash for good) & two

of the dorpers are just visible up on the slope between trees,
lounging couch potatoes keeping their rumen bacteria happy

as larry in the best of all possible worlds & a magpie struts
its stuff over the patio pavers checking out any crumbs fallen

from the dog’s mouth now asleep like its owner on his night sofa
in the attached greenhouse soon to be shaded against the uv bomb

as the Great East Australian Current brings down its predictable packages
of El Ninjo heat & bushfires jack out of the National Park box

or some sad oaf with low self-esteem & a match who’s pining
for a pyromanic erection & his very own byte of the news.

Now the light’s greyed into a skyscape that’s median in the published
spectrum of Likes and Followers, an indeterminate corrugation

of iron & bright portending neither heat nor rain, good nor bad, bad
nor good. No shadows, no interest. Time to plant those walnut seedlings today

down by the shed; never know your fat luck, they might bear fruit.
The revolution might come. You might eke out a few more years, go

blind only slowly, grow no new tumour, your grandson sit in their shade,
chew nuts, still see herons winging it over unpixellated water.

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~ by Peter Lach-Newinsky on August 1, 2016.

6 Responses to “Herons in the morning light”

  1. Looked up from watering yesterday to see the canyon to the west ablaze. In 3 hours it consumed 2000 acres and 15 houses so far. No rain in the forecast. The river I work on hit 76 (F) the last three days.

    We frogs are being boiled with such systematic relentlessness; like the way totalitarianism creeps in with little, barely noticed words and gestures. Glacier Park will soon need a new name. But then lots of things will need new names. Maybe I’ll get a new name!

    We’ll certainly need a new name for this particular brand of irony: because of the smoke I can’t hang my clothes to dry…I have to use the electric dryer! Kurt Vonnegut would have loved it.

    • Sheeyit, yeah. Smoke in the lungs the new summer fun, here too on occasion. That tinderbox feel about where its going to blaze up an inferno next… Hope those trout (and troutskys) can find some deeper cooler pools to hang out in till fall/winter.

  2. getting harder to handle my being overwhelmed by natures beauty and human’s abuse/disregard for her…

    • yep, gotta keep that even keel in the storms…working on a Big History perspective thingo at the moment, history of universe birthing history of planet birthing history of humanity, big bang to smartphone, ‘spark to phoenish’ (Joyce, Finneganns Wake)…deep time helps get some perspective/a-perspective on the right now…

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