On Herons

Last summer above Diamond Lake

a heron flew

like hope

and a feather escaped its' wake.

I watched it float then fall,

grabbed it down the beach

for good luck.

Ironically,

the one with the feather

now shoved into cupboards

you don't have

(amongst a calculator and a camera)

doesn't need it so much.

And if you had an address

I'd send it to you

because you believe in their magic, too.

You had one made

out of wrought iron

for me one Christmas.

That steel heron still hangs,

loyal to our front door,

a favorite among gifts

from a favorite person.

If we lost you

my heart would splinter.

I love you

and I let you go.

No expectations.

Just beliefs

in things that fly awkwardly

both imperfect

and magestic.

Take your cue

from our feathered friend

and try flight.

Be the heron

that gives hope

to everyone watching.

For my brother Ry