The herons came in for the night
the canes of their legs reaching ahead
into the trees their wings
ladling air for the landing

They quarreled in the voices of frogs
shuffled for position on the limbs
one discharging another into 
the blue field of the evening

Wintering here they await the call 
to the lunatic dance of their coupling 
at the vanishing point 
where they must believe
        
there are still other waters
in which to construct 
from imagined air the spandrel 
to a next generation 
      	            	        
The heart winters too in its season
There are rivers and moons 
roosts for the night and the pull
of near-remembered distance
      	            	        
Beside me then you spoke of Siena
the great horse on the stage
the young girls singing in the tunnels
in a place I have never seen

We watched until transforming dark 
settled all argument in its indifferent 
cloak and the birds became 
pale fruit above the water