The blue heron flew in with a signal,
Landed on the other side of the river,
And strutted to a place near a wet stump.
He signaled again, claiming this part
Of the waters, this part of the shore,
All of this within our eyesight and smell
And the sound of his call crisp
Over swirling waters full of the RSVP
Of rain. I could only watch, waiting
For it to come, the wildness bearing witness,
Continually bruised with my unknowing.
–Shaun Perkins
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 