For years I searched in vain, Through frigid winters and icy rain, And sweltering summers that melted my soul, I yearned for a shot, And I came close.
On a deep snowy mountain, I caught a glimpse, I grabbed for my camera, Oh, I did dash, But he was gone in a flash.
When crossing the river on a warm spring day, He sat on a stump, Only meters away, Yet as I saw his feathers sway, In the cool breeze of May, I knew then he would get away.
Oh, I searched far and wide, Chasing every call, Only to watch him glide.
Then one autumn day, I awoke from a slumber, And started to take a picture of all nature’s wonder.
Suddenly as my lens focused, There he was right on my screen, After all my yearning, And all my learning (and frankly all my sun burning), He perched on a tree pecking away, And my camera clicked and clicked away, Then I finally got my shot among the autumn crocus.
The deep white fog rolled into the bay like a tidal wave, Covering it in a deep sacred shroud of white, Then the clouds opened, and the rain fell as if it was poured from some heavenly sea, In the distance, a Great Blue Heron calls out.
He stalks his prey through the fog, As he moves, raindrops slide down his smooth long gray feathers, And the deep mud of the bay pulls down his feet with every step.
His movements are like that of the ocean, slow and steady, Only to be followed by something powerful and unstoppable, He strikes a violent stab at the ground, Then disappears fish scales gleaming from his beak into the fog.