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.