Many Miles
The feet of the heron,
under those bamboo stems,
hold the blue body,
the great beak
above the shallows
of the pond.
Who could guess
their patience?
Sometimes the toes
shake, like worms.
What fish
could resist?
Or think of the cricket,
his green hooks
climbing the blade of grass–
or think of camel feet
like ear muffs,
striding over the sand–
or think of your own
slapping along the highway,
a long life,
many miles.
To each of us comes
the body gift.
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