“My God,” she whispers, “look!”
I lean over the rail
of this very narrow wooden bridge
crossing a Vermont stream
along the Appalachian Trail
and all I see are rocks, water moving
rapidly over the rocks,
and the blue-grey of weathered
branches jutting from the water.
In an instant, the dusky figure spreads
beyond itself, lifting
in a long flowing arc, sailing directly
over our heads. We turn
and watch the great blue heron
glide into a patch of sunlight
then rise higher and higher
as if reaching for that place
beyond the sun
where Amelia Earhart listens
to Glen Miller’s Celestial band
in a world always at peace.