Somewhere beneath thick
morning mist
and sailing calm blue waters
on Shelekhivske lake
you can hear their calls
but only if you listen
closely, leaning
into the wind
before the world
of men wakes
another day
with naked
brutality.
I don’t know where herons
will fly when dark grey skies
burst open wide,
thunder breaking above
the tree-lined horizon
from the east
and raining down
to burn away
the last traces
of fog —
and there’s no place
left for herons
to hide.
