through sunrise haze I watch
twenty-two blue herons
land at the edge
of the stubble, stand
motionless as if not knowing
what to do when away
from water and sky
aspen leaves dance
to a background breeze
while frogs strum their chords
in a nearby slough
in soft diminuendos
the herons lift from the field
their long necks folded
dagger beaks extended
legs trailing
their huge wings stroke
the air, the blue-grey
sweep of feathers binding
me and the clouds
to the music of morning
Morning Prelude excerpted from Where Blue Grama Grows by Doris Bircham
