After rain in spring, I see my father
standing among a half-dozen others
atop fresh mounds of dirt, hear him
praise the Great Blue Heron as the best
‘gopher-getter around’. As the creek
warms, he glides up canyon early,
spends his days wading shallows,
coasting home in the gloaming.
Punctual, you could set your watch
by his circles to work each day,
depending on season and crop.
When it all mattered too much,
he’d slip up the road to check
the feed and fences, the condition
of my cows grazing with his herons.