All winter

Hope and Love

All winter
the blue heron
slept among the horses.

I do not know
the custom of herons,
do not know
if the solitary habit
is their way,
or if he listened for
some missing one –
not knowing even
that was what he did –
in the blowing
sounds in the dark.

I know that hope is the hardest
love we carry.

He slept
with his long neck
folded, like a letter
put away.

Jane Hirshfield