As through a fog layer, the sea-scented city park where crows bomb, a warm drowsy spot interprets the bird’s appearance, nuzzled chest feathers open to say, I never forget the dewdrops and sweet william of the mountain westwards, that command me. Come, come. Three minutes. Almost motionless. Tucks head into chest. Then wingspan aloft. Us walkers keep on but I gasp to a limping man with a dog, Did you—Afraid my eyes are bulging, afraid I have trees reflected in my eyes. It’s an omen, he says, then darts out of the park. I imagine my father as the heron, his eyes forming the face of a bird and the plaid blue- brown weekend shirt. How he hid in plain sight. Loose variations, we entwine anger as in rest. I never asked him, When you’re gone, what will it mean to see a heron? Meanwhile, I know the bird has reached glass waters, fishes where white feathers reflect the bay. I close my arms to compact my body, minimize the throb in my lungs. I didn’t pump the man with a dog about his own diagnosis, but don’t have to weigh majesty to know we all shoulder eventual shorelines.