The Great Black Heron
Denise
Levertov - 1923-1997
Since
I stroll in the woods more often
than
on this frequented path, it's usually
trees
I observe; but among fellow humans
what
I like best is to see an old woman
fishing
alone at the end of a jetty,
hours
on end, plainly content.
The
Russians mushroom-hunting after a rain
trail
after themselves a world of red sarafans,
nightingales,
samovars, stoves to sleep on
(though
without doubt those are not
what
they can remember). Vietnamese families
fishing
or simply sitting as close as they can
to
the water, make me recall that lake in Hanoi
in
the amber light, our first, jet-lagged evening,
peace
in the war we had come to witness.
This
woman engaged in her pleasure evokes
an
entire culture, tenacious field-flower
growing
itself among the rows of cotton
in
red-earth country, under the feet
of
mules and masters. I see her
a
barefoot child by a muddy river
learning
her skill with the pole. What battles
has
she survived, what labors?
She's
gathered up all the time in the world
—nothing
else—and waits for scanty trophies,
complete
in herself as a heron.