I thought that I had known motion
through avoiding movement but
those were mere reflections of you,
my heron. Poised on an endlessly flowing world,
an eyrie of fading substance, you alone are still,
The night becomes you in the sense that
the night is contained in you.
There can be no better ambassador for
sable nocturne than your aviary self,
my heron. Balanced on a ceaselessly toppling world,
a peak of transient states, you alone are grounded,
Uttering perfection should not be possible in this,
a dying place. Yet you intone and recite the only perfection
worth hearing in your stature,
my heron. Singing above a terminally
tragic world, a canopy of unspoken
truths, you alone are singular,
Singular in your attention.
Singular in your contraction.
Singular in your elation.
Singular in your perception.