Lyn Lifshin

Heron On Ice

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 to guava,

tangerine, to 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