Three poems by Russell Reece

Rookery


At dusk, one by one,

great blue herons

come from all directions,

swoop to the top

of the tall pine across the river,

wings spread,

balancing awkwardly

on spindle legs.

Each time a clamor from the others,

angry arguments, a loud barrage

of squeals and squawking,

until finally

they calm and settle

and a soft sound

like cooing begins.


I sit on the porch, listening,

watching lightning bugs in the trees

against the darkening sky,

and think how nice it would have been

if each night,

we could have gotten to that.




Spawn


Pebbles glow and wobble in the shallows

where foot-long silver herring

rocket past,

a swirling cluster

weaving through the riprap,

looping under the dock,

splattering the surface,

then round again.