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 thing we carry.
He slept with his
long neck folded,
like a letter put away.
-Jane Hirshfield
❤️
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