You are a heron in the rain,
your throat rising beyond
muddy streams.
You wait for the little fish;
the kind so little they swim
in the turbulence of your gut
as your feet flap and sink
on wet grounds.
They say it is good luck to see you.
In dark days it was told the crevices
of your beak hid pockets of sun
from ancient skies.
All we wanted to do
was live drunk like this;
shot through with daylight.