Poetry

Knot in the Neck

Photos show I tilt
my head, listing
to the right. Even now
I hold my head that way
over this page—crick
in the neck, I must be
lowering my head to go
under some bridge
coming up. I’ve locked
my door determined to hold
out here till supper time.

The heron stood her ground
when I biked past, curved,
tall body must be an adult’s.
The russet neck faintly visible
in dusk. Pale gray scapulars.
When I moved out of the tree’s
shadow, she walked to a log
and leaped the water, but did
not fly away. Bent, not intent
on fishing, she watched me.
A ragged look about her.

©Kate Hallett Dayton

Minnesota Monthly

Kate Hallett Dayton

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