by Beth Burrell

by Gary Grossman

What is this poetic obsession with
great blue herons? I get they’re Taoist
priests hunkered down in contemplation

of Laozi’s new and selected thoughts,
and that every scroll painted west of
the Aleutian Islands has an off-center

heron placed to guard river or mountain
tarn. But what if fame arises
just from large size and reluctance

to fly, the ability to be rigid —
so visible — as if someone plopped
a four-story gray concrete skyscraper

at marsh’s edge. They call, not to us, but
to flatter each other, a reed-flattening
graaakkkkk, and when they lift they

dump, tagging with graffiti of bone-white
uric acid. But what if they’re just big dumb
birds that stand still long enough

to clutch our prayers and visions?
And what if we’re all just big dumb birds?
Shouldn’t we still strive to hold that pose?