Heron on Ice: Poetry

By Lyn Lifshin


Pale salmon light,

9 degrees. Floor

tiles icy. Past

branches the

beaver’s gnawed


at the small hole

the heron waits,

deep in the water.

Sky goes apricot,

tangerine, rose.


Suddenly, a dive,

then the heron

with sun squirming

in his mouth, a

carp that looks a


third as big as he

is gulped, then

swallowed, orange

glittering wildly

like a flag or the


wave of someone