I watched
a white-bearded,
black-capped
old gentlemen,
lean out over
his camera and tripod
as he watched the herons,
waiting for a nest builder
to fly in for a landing.
I thought
at first, with his salty
sea captain looks,
that he seemed better
suited for standing
on the prow of some schooner,
the original ancient mariner,
finding his way finally
out of Coleridge’s curse.
I could be wrong, though.
Perhaps he was nothing but
a lighthouse keeper on furlough.
It must get lonely keeping watch
and yet, as he stood there patiently
watching, it seemed clear
that God made him to be the watcher.
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