Blue Heron on the Nest
       

Today I stand in the shadow, binoculars
misting over, while the mother heron flies
away to fish, returns to plunge her beak down
one gaping craw after another and takes
to the air again without a minute's rest.
The young ones bob and flap, teeter
and squawk. It's a long way down.

When I hitched a baby on my hip,
spooned oatmeal at a toddler, and handed
round honeyed words with peanut butter,
every day was droplets on a hot plate,
caring and cooking and imminent disaster,
a whirl of diligence every mother knows.

The heron shares her catch and seems to sag
before lifting off over the nest rim.
My own mother tugs at me
from a great distance. Her yellow eye
meets mine as she stalks out of the shallows.

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Copyright © 2014 Coyla Barry All rights reserved
from The Flying Days
Carolina Wren Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission