The Swamp Heron
“Quawk”, comes that harshly guttural note
In the night stillness, hear it? “Quawk”.
A hoarse “good hunting” from the throat
Of a night heron, feathered gawk,
Ungainly, droll, the awkward child
And threadbare outcast of the wild.
’Tis not his custom to intrude
Where others are, while on his way
To his beloved solitude
Nor has he overmuch to say;
His only greeting is a squawk
But filled with cheer, a friendly “Quawk”.
Thanks, humble neighbor of the moors
For such philosophy is rare;
Though neither grace nor charm are yours
You envy no one, nor compare
Their lissome poise - your stilt like walk!
Their lilting song - your throaty “Quawk”.
He knows, illfavored bird of night
The finest feathers in the dark
Are little worth, nor pleasing flight
Nor beauty’s form with none to mark;
Contented but to nightly stalk
His supper like a wise old quawk.