欧宝娱乐

“If you were silent
Flight of herons on dark sky...
Oh! Autumn snowflakes!”
― Sokan, Japanese Haiku

“A blue preacher
flew toward the swamp,
in slow motion.

On the leafy banks,
an old Chinese poet,
hunched in the white gown of his wings,

was waiting.
The water
was the kind of dark silk

that has silver lines
shot through it
when it is touched by the wind

or is splashed upward,
in a small, quick flower,
by the life beneath it.

The preacher
made his difficult landing,
his skirts up around his knees.

The poet's eyes
flared, just as poet's eyes
are said to do

when a poet is awakened
from the forest of meditation.
It was summer.

It was only a few moments past sun's rising,
which meant the whole day
lay before them.

They greeted each other,
rumpling their gowns for an instant,
and then smoothing them.

They entered the water,
and instantly two more herons -
equally as beautiful -

joined them and stood just beneath them
in the black, polished water
where they fished all day.

"Some Herons" by Mary Oliver”
― Mary Oliver, Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

“I come around the curve of a hardwood hammock to witness two herons, a great white and a great blue, having what looks like a territorial dispute. I slow the canoe. Another white heron stands in the shallows a short way off, either fishing or waiting to see who'll win. The white and the blue keep flying up, each trying to warn the other off, angling their wings so the light catches them first one way and then another.
I sketch them fast, trying to record the unintended grace of their motion as well as the force of their intention. While they're concerned with power and territory and fishing rights, they have no idea how stunning the exchange makes them look. The blue heron, in particular, shows me the richness of her color from every angle.”
― Virginia Hartman, The Marsh Queen

“in the sweet green cold London
spring
I watch a tall grey heron
stomping down its reed nest
that's sprouting everywhere
like garden-sheared hair

and all my living
and all my dead
run up my arms
like squirrels.”
― Dorothy Porter