He’s not alone—blue herons like to feed
here, egrets, mallards, ducks of lesser fame;
but his is an especially fine breed—
bold head with yellow crown, a stately name.

He stalks by night—and, happily for us,
at twilight too, along the bayou’s verge,
immobile nearly, fishing without fuss,
obedient to nature’s constant urge.

We call him “Our Bird,” though he’s wild and free,
indifferent to our admiring gaze,
his being wholly bound in what we see,
beyond the pale of reprimand or praise.