It never belonged to me,
the blue heron. At least not
in the way that one might own
a sweater or a tea cup or a car.
Still, I had that feeling of ownership,
the kind that one has when
she finds wild berries growing
in her yard and eats them by the purple handful,
giddy with her good luck. Or the feeling
you might have when the marigolds bloom,
and because you have planted them
from seed you feel in some way responsible
for the mounds of yellow and orange.
Not that I was responsible for the heron,
stoic and elegant standing in the shallows or
rising slowly as it did above the river on great
blue wings, though I did take it personally
each time I saw it, and I did love to give
it my whole attention, stilling my body
and following it with my eyes,
as if through appreciation I could create
a greater connection, a connection that went
beyond woman and bird.
It is so funny, this longing to own
what we adore, to call it ours. My love,
my darling, my precious, my dear.
This morning, after a year without seeing
a single blue heron, I found one resting
on a branch outside my front door.
We were both equally startled, though it
moved first, gathering air in its angles,
reaching away from me with its neck,
disappearing beyond the tops of the cottonwood trees.
As always, I gave it everything I had to offer—
the only things I really own, my adoration,
my attention, my gratitude, my wonder.