From this shore I’ve seen how the sole heron spent

her entire summer stock still, wings folded

watching indistinct shadows sliding beneath her

and which part of her am I,

the body or the water?

As the new moons rise

over the river, darkness

begins to grow wings

Water, shore, and bird take flight

and the seasons go with them

I won’t change, but

already the sun slants

bronze into the dusty air

And those shadows? Who can name

the hidden forms that move them?