Great and blue

I took a wrong turn,
          returning from picking up paperwork
          permitting my kids to participate in the Special Olympics.
I thought I could find my way home if I just kept going.
Rock Road follows the serpentine curves of Spring Creek.
I spotted a large bird along the side of the creek.

Was that a heron?
This is Central Pennsylvania. It's 33° outside.
I don't think you're where you're supposed to be.
My knowledge is far from encyclopedic,
          and the bird was crouched and low,
          and I was in my vehicle driving.
I couldn't stand not to know.

I happened upon a spot of gravel and started my 180.
I almost didn't see the SUV behind me,
          so I paused to let it pass,
          anxious that the bird would still be there.
I drove cautiously back the way I came,
          and the bird was still there.
I slowed to a stop,
          and there were no following vehicles to rush me,
          although I don't know if that would have mattered.
I took pictures on my phone.
"Pics or it didn't happen,"
          or rather,
          forever to decide whether I was right or wrong.

It was a heron.
They commonly breed in Central Pennsylvania,
          but usually in March through May.

Like many of the joys in my life, my birding is
          accidental, incidental, and circumstantial.

When I pick my children up from school,
          I will show them my pictures--
          the progression of the bird sitting on the shore,
          then spreading its wings to take off into the sky,
          which today was grey,
          but soon will return to great and blue.





about this poem:
Written while I was listening to Matthew Wimberley read his poem, "Materials for a Gravestone Rubbing," on the Academy of American Poets poem-a-day podcast (subscribe if you can, it's lovely). The synergy of the moment had me opening my Notes app to recite this; I was so inspired by his work, his description of it, and his process.