The heron dies.

The food sent to his stomach

abetted him no more.

His urine turned black.

But his face remained blue, his face

and its grizzled beard

agreed to be turned thus

by blue hands

to the standard of the sky.

Those whose flight is stolen from them

still have this.  So did his daughter

witness, collecting the sheen of the

discarded food, the rupture

of his heart, where she folded

a ribcage or otherwise

make a bed for the body

he could settle into.  This shoulder,

this wing, this odious

resignation.

elizabeth robinson