The Great Black Heron

    Since I stroll in the woods more often

    than on this frequented path， it's usually

    trees I observe； but among fellow humans

    what I like best is to see an old woman

    fishing alone at the end of a jetty，

    hours on end， plainly content.

    The Russians mushroom-hunting after a rain

    trail after themselves a world of red sarafans，

    nightingales， samovars， stoves to sleep on

    （though without doubt those are not

    what they can remember）。 Vietnamese families

    fishing or simply sitting as close as they can

    to the water， make me recall that lake in Hanoi

    in the amber¹ light， our first， jet-lagged evening，

    peace in the war we had come to witness.

    This woman engaged in her pleasure evokes²

    an entire culture， tenacious³ field-flower

    growing itself among the rows of cotton

    in red-earth country， under the feet

    of mules⁴ and masters. I see her

    a barefoot child by a muddy river

    learning her skill with the pole. What battles

    has she survived， what labors⁵？

    She's gathered up all the time in the world

    ——nothing else——and waits for scanty⁶ trophies⁷，

    complete in herself as a heron.