Risk

It isn’t risk that brings the Great
Blue Heron north
before it’s safe for him.
That last wet snowfall
blinds him, leaves him knock-kneed,
stranded in an icy stream
staring down his breakfast.
But it doesn’t mean a thing.
Don’t take to heart this change,
this sudden shift away
from how it’s all supposed to be.

Risk is only in the naming.
The Great Blue does as he has always:
flies north when the urge comes on,
knowing he will find his stream
his brackish tidal pond
and all those fish.
He can hardly wait to start.

I suppose he has a memory of what was
at his journey’s end in former years:
a nor’easter’s snarling face
spits snow and sleet and then
melts back into the sea.

If we would only do what we must -
do what our urges say -
how much less prey to fear of risk
we’d be, how much more
open to the bounty at the end:
foolish schools of racing minnows,
fat young frogs who close their eyes,
and lazy summer days at twilight
before the long and winged flight home.

Susan Murata