[wpaudio url=”/audio/winter10/ricks.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
Watching a Blue Heron fishing:
tight as a quiet banjo string,
spring-loaded and neck cocked,
ready to fire that piercing beak,
eyes, head, neck down, stabbing
into the dim depths where prey swims.
Out it all comes with a head waggle,
the hapless fish tossed around,
a scaly cartridge being chambered,
fired into a bellyful of fated neighbours.
Then he does it again.