Reading Response 1, Week 7

A Heron on the Oconee

                                        1
Now on the Oconee, on this shallow elbow of quiet water,
the first moist sunlight seeps through the thicket,
and a heron streaked in feathered lightstrides out among the rocks.
Ruffled and muddy, it wobbles out into the river
and balances on sticks among the rocks,
 utterly motionless among the rocks.

                                       2
Near the end, the way my old man stared into the distance,
the way he leaned from his armchair
toward a window, elbow quivering on his walker,
and gazed through oak beanches into a broken sky,
is the way this heron, ruffled, muddy,
stares downriver at the water rippling into the trees.

-David Bottoms, from We Almost Disappear

I like how this poem is purposely split into sections. This is surprising because it is a calculated move that I would think would take some of the intrigue out of "figuring out" the poem. I had to stop and think about what a "shallow elbow of quiet water" looks like, and it reminded me of the time not too long ago where I watched a heron walk out of the woods into the shallow water behind my grandparent's backyard in Kentucky. Yes, I know this has no place in a critique, but it made me pick up the phone and call my grandparents. And language that calls you to action is a powerful thing. The first part, recalling the independant and strong heron and then later comparing the elbow of the water with the shaky elbows of his father was magestically tragic. I wonder if he had Alzheimers becasue of the last line, where this heron "stares downriver at the water rippling into the trees." Both images are serene, strong and silent...but for completely different reasons.