The Great Black Heron

Since I stroll in the woods more often

than on this frequented path, it's usually

trees I observe; but among fellow humans

what I like best is to see an old woman

fishing alone at the end of a jetty,

hours on end, plainly content.

The Russians mushroom-hunting after a rain

trail after themselves a world of red sarafans,

nightingales, samovars, stoves to sleep on

(though without doubt those are not

what they can remember). Vietnamese families

fishing or simply sitting as close as they can

to the water, make me recall that lake in Hanoi

in the amber light, our first, jet-lagged evening,

peace in the war we had come to witness.

This woman engaged in her pleasure evokes

an entire culture, tenacious field-flower

growing itself among the rows of cotton

in red-earth country, under the feet

of mules and masters. I see her

a barefoot child by a muddy river

learning her skill with the pole. What battles

has she survived, what labors?

She's gathered up all the time in the world

--nothing else--and waits for scanty trophies,

complete in herself as a heron.