Ghost Heron

i welcome the greening
except
i’ll miss
the fishermen,
their knee to chest gait
through the muck

they don’t mind the intrusion
except
they’re pulling the curtain
inch-by-inch
across the stage
of my gaze

until the eye rests here,
at the edge of a thicket
instead of there,
along the shallows
of a meandering creek
where fishermen
dine in private

except,
here i sit
on the other side of waiting
for the fall,
wanting memory’s apparition
to emerge

when the greening
will retreat again
from sight