All winter
the blue heron
slept among the horses.
I do not know
the custom of herons,
do not know
if the solitary habit
is their way.
or if he listened for
some missing one--
not knowing even
that was what he did--
in the blowing
sounds in the dark.
I know that hope is the hardest
love we carry.
He slept
with his long neck
folded, like a letter
put away.

Jane Hirschfield Hope and Love