Why the Blue Heron

I sat drably in dust while sorting sheaves of garlic innumerable,
My thoughts a litany of what must be done,
When a sudden gasp and hushed command broke through monotony.
The line from her outstretched finger led to the barn
And from there to its peak,
Where a heron stood, calm and aloof like a king.

The moment stretched long, but he a second later stirred--
Slow beating of wings, a wash of blues and grays,
Elegant motion with no need of haste.
He rose above the fretful hens
And sailed over their tedium and care
On an unseen draft of warmth, and I,
One who sees purpose in all things,
Left a part of me there, a dry stalk with garlic at my feet,
Mouth open, eyes tied to him passing overhead.