At the very edge of a very old neighborhood,
last year a new couple built and moved in.
Theirs is a simple structure, unpretentious,
not nearly as high or wide, and
somewhat exposed to springtime westerlies.
I’m not one to gaze through open curtains,
to stop and listen at windows flung
wide, catching this comment or that dig
at some sad and slighted spouse. In
fact I wonder how many times now
I passed on my walk with the dog
before I saw him starkly there,
a silent sentinel to an ancient urge.
This solitary heron against December gray
in the exposed rookery, months yet before
she arrives to make house and he
commutes to the river again and again
for sticks to fortify their meager home.
