No matter the hour
of night or day,
she's there–always
at one shaded bank
of the pond
or the other.
Always alone.
Once, it almost frightened me–
she was in the center,
not a ripple on the lake,
not her mate,
nor another wading bird in sight–
so regal and pure, and unharmed,
so unafraid–it seemed
of solitude,
so sure.

Imagine, desire gone,
no longer essential.
Not touch, perhaps one luxury–
memory–to sustain her.

And then as night falls
so brilliant and still in that darkness,
a splash of white.