The Great White Heron

The hollow thump of a door
so rarely opened it sounded vacuum sealed
caused me to put down
my cup of morning coffee
and look at the porch next door.

The hair of the old man emerging
blazed white in the morning sun.
Beneath and slightly behind 
this thatch of alabaster
was his face,
as thin and sharp as a hatchet’s blade.
At the doorway he paused
like a cat being put out,
standing stock still,
looking warily in both directions.
Detecting no predators,
he slowly lifted his bony left leg high,
held for a moment, sat it down,
and replaced it with the right.
His prey, the morning newspaper,
lay ten feet in front of him.

Across the street
in a marshy area
a great,white heron 
also shimmered in the sun
as it pursued its meal,
lifting one stick-thin leg
like the man,
pausing to search for underwater prey,
then repeating on the other limb.

The old man neared his goal,
approaching as slowly as a pickpocket,
finally bending and reaching down.
No luck, a few inches short.
He drew himself up and grasped downward again,
coming perilously close to upending.

In the shallows the heron
spotted a small fish and
as quick as the strike of a cobra
was upon it,
emerging with its breakfast in its beak.
It let out a squawk of triumph,
fluttered its huge wings, and took flight.

The beating of the wings
caught the old man’s attention,
and he lifted his head skyward,
watching until the bird
vanished into the sun, 
a wistful smile crossing his face,
then fading.