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Heron Shapes at Dusk
I know the heron that’s made this beach his own Between the headlands, slants like a poised spear Invisible in the driftwood where I peer — And there he goes now, flapping off alone. Later his shape breaks out of some gray stone That the low tides leave bare this time of year, Then further down, in deeper dusk, lifts clear Where only a black tangle of kelp had shown. Then over by the cliffs, in the near dark there, I see a heron shape become a girl Hunched with her trouble there on the driftwood. The shore a place of human bad and good, Not herons now, so stony stark her stare At the late red fading from a cloud-swirl.
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