At the Cub Scout picnic, some of the boys

are fishing in the well-stocked lake –

trout, so they are told.

They roll little balls of Velveeta

between the finger and thumb,

then skewer these yellow balls on hooks

and cast them in.

Within minutes – oh, the power of cheese –

their lines jerk taut, and they pull in “sunnies”,

fish too small to fry, not as tasty as trout.

Meanwhile, a blue heron has stationed itself

not ten yeards from the last boy on the bank.

Still as a feathered rail, it stands, fearless,

its glassy eye peering patiently,

as a skimpy sunny thrashes the water,

reeled in, and the boy extricates the hook

from the gasping animal’s mouth.

The boy and the heron regard each other,

then the boy lobs the fish in a long arc

through the evening air.

The heron snaps out its elastic neck,

snags the sunny in its scissor beak,

then throws back its head and lets the fish

slide down its gullet.

It waits another moment or two,

for the feat to be repeated,

but the boy has gone back to the pavilion

for a cheeseburger. The heron beats the air

and lifts up, its long legs dripping and dangling,

as it crosses the moon on half-sky wings.

05/31/2004

Posted on 06/01/2004
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt