Abstract
after Miłosz
Blue-gray, alert and humble,
the young heron cautions near,
following my gaze over the black bay.
We hold still in the restless breeze.
It is chilly this night.
If we pretend to be indistinct
from the pier, the air—
if we pretend not to be—
but a cyclist coasts by,
his headlamp and rickety-rack
alarming the bird into flight,
and we are alone again, cast back
into this night, where we are hungry,
where we have stopped briefly off I-10.
An old man has been tuning his guitar
for half an hour, sitting on the stone fence
around the park still alight from Christmas,
its obelisk glowing electric blue.
We hold hands to keep warm
and look away from panhandlers
as we walk to the burger joint.
Beloved, only God can see him,
God alone can hear him now—
the small bird on the big bay
who may or may not have noticed us.
Pensacola 2017
©T. Dallas Saylor