Civil Twilight

When the blue heron

is onyx etched

upon blown-glass water,

one foot poised,

dripping, his stillness

is its own term of art.

Were he flawed—

his bill less than stiletto,

his neck a ruined column—

how could we know

in this moment

of edge and silhouette,

when the horizon

has claimed the sun

and the winter-bone trees

scratch the chiseled moon?

Chase your foolish bright sunsets

contingent as they are

upon ceremony and awe,

gaudy spectacle clattering

across the atmosphere,

shouting the obvious

as if it were mystery.

Give me this twilight,

this kingdom of almost,

of echo,

of uncertain

obsidian—

polished,

deadly.