May in the mountains and the Great Blue Heron drags her reedy legs through a raining hail of slush. Her lance-like beak points the way straight from her S-curved neck as she follows in one sleek grey glide. Up Ute Pass, into this nest of mountains with its muddied snow-melt she sails, weighty wingbeats muffled by thunder. Lightning splashes like a flashbulb over the Gazebo pond. Does the fatty flavor of corn-fed trout tug the heron by her tongue, towing her here? The crooked spruce cants at 45 degrees above her favorite angling place. In our cedar cabin on the pond-side hill, I hold back the sheers to watch from my bedroom window.

resistant
to ice on feather
persistent
faith preens, knee deep
on rangy orange legs

Note: The author wishes to acknowledge Emily Dickinson for her assistance with the title.