My wife is at the computer. The cat
is sleeping across the soft gold cushion
of my chair. Last night there was a frost.
I am practicing to walk like a heron.
It’s the walk of solemn monks
progressing to prayer on stilts,
the deliberate cadence of a waltz
in water. I lift my right leg within
the stillness, within the languid
quiet of a creek, slowly, slowly,
slowly set my foot on the dog-haired
carpet, pause, hold a half note, lift
the left, head steady as a bell before
the ringer tugs the rope. On I walk,
the heron’s mute way, across the
room, past my wife who glances
up, holds her slender hands
above the keys until I pass.
poetry 