The heron on my roof seemed preoccupied
with the quick shimmy of squirrels up to the roof
to tan and discuss new age philosophies in all their nakedness

The heron casts a little squint, possibly it was sympathetic,
maybe he wanted to pull up a chair and tell the squirrels
about his time in Baton Rouge. “I’m as American as the next heron,” he’d say, “but that doesn’t mean I have to agree
with every stupid thing we do.”

He squints again as he starts to show off
the frames of his great uncle Merv, his Grand-Pepe
and the overly Catholic display of his great great grandmother Anna Banana Von Blue.

Then he’d slip on his snakeskin moccasins, jump
to the middle of the room, and bounce around as he told
the story of the first time one his kin encountered a bulldozer
in the pre-purple loose strife swamps.