So heavy <br />is the long-necked, long-bodied heron, <br />always it is a surprise <br />when her smoke-colored wings <br /> <br />open <br />and she turns <br />from the thick water, <br />from the black sticks <br /> <br />of the summer pond, <br />and slowly <br />rises into the air <br />and is gone. <br /> <br />Then, not for the first or the last time, <br />I take the deep breath <br />of happiness, and I think <br />how unlikely it is <br /> <br />that death is a hole in the ground, <br />how improbable <br />that ascension is not possible, <br />though everything seems so inert, so nailed <br /> <br />back into itself-- <br />the muskrat and his lumpy lodge, <br />the turtle, <br />the fallen gate. <br /> <br />And especially it is wonderful <br />that the summers are long <br />and the ponds so dark and so many, <br />and therefore it isn't a miracle <br /> <br />but the common thing, <br />this decision, <br />this trailing of the long legs in the water, <br />this opening up of the heavy body <br /> <br />into a new life: see how the sudden <br />gray-blue sheets of her wings <br />strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing <br />takes her in.<br /><br />Mary Oliver<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/heron-rises-from-the-dark-summer-pond/
