You bathe at the banks
of the Verde River, Blue, you
strike a deep note beside
the muddy timber of green reeds
that don’t hide you
when you leave.
Those wings reach the edges
of my curiosity
and I am only brave enough
to inquire of your disappearing shadow:
“Why do I wait for next, Blue?
What is amiss with my now?
Why do I think better
is on the other side
of this minute?
Instead of within it?
Why is sleep so tempting?
Because it offers morning:
some other, some new
chance at what I didn’t do
today?”
Distant blue sings to my reflection
ripples in the slow current,
eyes down, dog splashes, crickets
nod to the sun’s set.
“You wait for nothing,
and call it something,”
Blue writes in cursive,
“You plan breathing
because it fills time.
You listen to stories
because it is easier
than telling your own.
You don’t dream
but for when you sleep.
“Remember the gift of tomorrow
is its return.”
Sharp blades of grasses crack
as I head back to the trail
yawning and ready already
for an early dinner.
“Think I’ll turn in early,”
I tell the dog still sniffing
in the cattails
for the things
I left behind.
photo of Great Blue Heron courtesy
pocket poet 
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