blue heron

i follow the heron, convinced she
might take me to the underworld
or the otherworld or wherever the seams
of the land start to give. i find it harder
to plan for the future than ever before.
i hope for small pleasures. a warm day.
the scent of brine in the water. toads
in the field where rainwater pools, singing
as if they will never turn to bones.
at the creek in my hometown a blue heron
would step with me across the marshland.
she would ask, "when are you coming home?"
i imagined putting on a heron suit.
how delightful it would be to shrink 
into a flickering body capable world slipping. 
instead, i always ran from her. she turned into a 
smudge in the dusk sky. purple like
a real plum. thunderstorm dumping fruit
on the sidewalk. everything syruping from
the wild heat. the bird in me tries to escape.
dipping legs & a yearning for thread.
i lose the heron where the trees thicken 
& the sound of bugs turns into a machine.
i search. i call. she does not come. the future
feels like a bowl of weeping planets. 
i feed them honey from those little sticks 
that are supposed to be from tea. i used to 
try to make huge & ugly plans for triumph.
i used to run from herons. now they run
from me. i feel in the dirt, searching for
that little crease. a string to pluck & pull
it all apart. i do not know where the herons go.
i hope they do not talk about me there.
i am mostly embarrassed of what i am. 
so much flesh. so much hair. never enough blue.