Now the blue heron
wades the cold ponds
of November.

In the gray light his hunched shoulders
are also gray.

He finds scant food – a few
numbed breathers under
a rind of mud.

When the water he walks in begins
turning to fire, clutching itself to itself
like dark flames, hardening,
he remembers.

Winter.
From A Poem for the Blue Heron by Mary Oliver

I watched a blue heron as it stood in quiet contemplation – its long, sinuous neck curved like an ornate candelabrum. In the language of the poets, this elegant creature embodied a dignified grace, a symbol of refinement and grandeur. Its slate-blue plumage, reminiscent of fine silk, caught the light, creating an ethereal aura that stirred my senses. I had to paint it.