It's Still Life

The Heron in the Birdbath
(An Almost Diplomatic Incident)

The heron has arrived.
A tall, grey-blue silence
standing knee-deep in the birdbath…

like a librarian who’s forgotten
why she entered the reading room.

THE OLD WOMAN’S VIEW:
“How majestic. How serene.
A living sculpture,
a breath of wild
in our overgrown garden.”
She reaches for her sketchpad,
her tea going cold.

THE CAT’S VIEW (from under the hydrangea):
“That is not a bird.
That is a stick with ambition.
And it is in my bowl.

The heron tilts its head,
one golden eye fixed on the cat.
It does not blink.
It does not flinch.
It simply … exists,
with the quiet confidence
of something that eats fish
for breakfast.

The cat’s tail puffs.
“It’s judging me.
I can feel it.
Also — why are its legs
so long?
Unnecessary.
Show-off.”

The Old Woman sighs.
“It’s a heron, not a critic.
And it’s not your bowl.
It’s the birds’ bowl.”

“Everything is my bowl,”
the cat corrects her.
“I allow others to use it.
This one…
has overstayed.”

Just then,
the heron unfolds its wings,
slow, vast, like two grey sunsets,
and lifts into the air without a sound.
A single drop of water falls
from its foot
directly onto the cat’s nose.

The cat freezes.
“…Did it just…
bless me?
Or insult me?”

The Old Woman hides a smile.
“Maybe both.”