Taylor Tazza Moon

The Osprey and The Heron

I tried to be like the osprey:

took that one leap with you,

loved it,

attempted to latch on

to the feeling, the flight.

The big wriggling sparkling bleeding living dying fish

was right there,

in my unpracticed talons.

I couldn’t grasp it,

let it go again. Get a grip.

How I wish I’d been bold;

wanted to be rogueish,

handsome,

quick.

Sharp eyebrows,

warm, unpretentious form.

I loved all those things

I saw in you.

Decisive. Strong-shouldered. Real.

Always headed straight for

the simplest truth you could see.

Nevermind the crash.

Bird on a mission.

I realize now I’m a heron.

Slow,

alone,

fond of the beach at night,

and frogs.

Alarmingly thin and

awkward,

silent or squawking.

Watching the osprey dive,

slicing through bullshit like a knife,

big brave rushing—wow.

Wanting what I couldn’t have,

or hadn’t.

Strong shoulders.

Surety.

It takes time to stab

through the fog

to the truth

with my slow

ace of swords

but I aim

for the heart.

I move with the stillness,

and wait to understand.

I am trying to be

full of the kind of generous grace

you deserve,

trying to be worth another

flyby,

trying to say with my angled limbs

and too much too late words

from a hazy distance

that I want to fish side-by-side

in the mystery,

or at least close enough

to observe each other’s

rippling effects

in the deep water’s shifting surface.

I want to dance with you, please,

like an Audubon society member is watching

and we’re trying

to make their day.

Give me another chance,

drop out of the sky with

some of your own

gentle, ruffled grace.

I miss so much about you.

I can only stand

on my own thin legs.