The Point of Fate
John I. Blair
On the pond in the park the heron stalks,
Its blue feathers dark against the rushes on the
Its bright eye intent on the unsuspecting fish.
Ever so smoothly, making no ripples,
The heron moves through the water
Toward its prey.
The brilliant sun and still air make the pond glass,
So the heronís curved neck and sharp beak
Cast a perfect image on the surface.
Together the reality and the image
Are like the two halves of a great pincers
With the heron as its hinge.
Caught in the trance of the heron's slow dance,
I wait for the two halves to meet
At the point of fate.
©2001 John I. Blair