Night Herons
by: Mary Oliver
Some herons and that was the end of them
were fishing as far as we know--
in the robes though, what do we know
of the night except that death
at a low hour is so everywhere and so entire--
of the water's body, pummeling and felling,
and the fish, I suppose or sometimes,
were full like this, appearing
of fish happiness through such a thin door--
in those transparent inches one stab, and you're through!
even as, over and over, And what then?
the beaks jacked down Why, then it was almost morning,
and the narrow and one by one
bodies were lifted the birds
with every opened their wings
quick sally, and flew.
The scene Oliver paints is lyrical and dark, the herons gobbling up fish in shallow tide pools. As with most of her poems, Oliver doesn't ascribe any negative or positive connotations. The fish are doing what fish do, and the herons are doing what herons do.
Oliver does meditate a little on the unpredictability of life and death, in an Emily Dickinson way. Because the fish could not stop for Death, Death kindly stops for them. The fish have no idea they are about to become heron bedtime snacks. They are just full of fish happiness as they are plucked one by one out of the water.
None of us know what the future holds. We like to think we do. That's why we plan trips one or two or three years in advance. There's no guarantee that any of us will be around in one or two or three years. Or even one or two or three days. We are just full of fish happiness, enjoying the moon-shot shallows, not worrying about night herons.
I'm not saying we should approach every day as an iceberg ready to sink our Titanics. No. But we should approach every day as a gift. Another chance to breathe lilac air. Eat an ice cream sandwich. Walk along a beach, hunting for agates. Or simply do everyday things, but take the blinders off and celebrate butter on a bagel or sunlight in a field of goldenrod. Even a blister on a foot or papercut on a thumb is a gift. Because those small wounds are reminders that we are alive in this messed-up world.
As I said earlier, the future isn't guaranteed. Today was the thirtieth anniversary of the death of my wife's mother. A wonderful woman who was taken away far too soon. She loved her family fiercely, especially her three daughters. Had a laugh that could melt a glacier. I had the privilege of knowing her only five or six years. Not enough time. But I learned something really important from her in those days: never pass up a chance to say "I love you." Because love (not money or fame or success or music or poetry), above everything else, can change the world.
That is the one guarantee that Saint Marty is sure of.
