The Heron

The heron in the mist,
A stroke of white engulfed in gray,
As insubstantial as a ghost,
It stalks the icy river flow,
As the day’s last light fades away,

The coiling mist creeps upstream,
On currents yet unseen,
As a melody in the river’s hiss,
Crafts a haunting twilight tune,

Night, the clever thief,
Steals the splendor from the trees,
But the glimmer on the river’s face,
Is entrusted to the moon,

Darkness lulls the world to sleep,
And the heron’s gone to roost,
But I know the sun will rise again,
And when the day has waned,

The summer storms will raise the mist,
And in the mist the heron stays,
As reliable as the sun and moon,
A stroke of white engulfed in gray.