Please accept this poem,

which hides in between the rolls

of the land like a heron I spotted.

It doesn't need to fly to be known.

In fact, let it stay

where peace parts the barely noticeable

banks of Boozie Creek

and I drive by so cautiously,

trying not to be seen seeing

in a big red Suzuki.

And it stays still as a puddle

in that tender little place

where I don't think I have ever

seen a heron.