Our little pond is tannen brown,
an opaque curtain drawn against the sun.
Between this dark, watery world
and this bright, airy realm,
the Heron hunts.
His feathered wings and halo,
twisted now into horns and twiggy feet,
his former celestial song now become a bestial squack
scrapped through His razor beak,
sharpened to stab beneath the veil
and spear a careless sunny by the tail.
He was so beautiful, this great blue predator!
Angelic wings soaring!
Now his yellow eyes stare cold
while, with patient intent,
he stalks the oblivious soul,
to snatch it in the moment
of its split-second choice
to swim too near the sky.
I know him well.
I’ve often fished the tributary streams of Hell.
And I fear,
(though not yet enough not to take it)
Herons ever ready wager:
My faith in debt-paid Eternity
against His gleaming, burning Nothing.