Meditation by the Salt Pans

  The sun is ending on the west
  side of the island. You think your life
  is stuck within the mud of spring
  so thick that even four-wheel drive
  proves useless. The marsh ahead looks
  barren. You think Richard Nixon
  died this weekend and that is something
  else you'll never further protest.
  The water's flat and mirrors flatenned
  skies. You think that it's an E.K.G.
  about your inner life. But if
  you see incessantly without
  the airs of expectation
  towards that small round spot of liquid
  evening, a great blue heron will
  come forth much like some rising wisp
  of smoldering eventuality.

copyright 1998 Greg Perry