About Nance Van Winckel More Poems by Nance Van Winckel Having to Decide Amongst Ourselves Man Shaving a Woman's Leg Give it Up I Watched Her Go Keep the Engine Running What My Father Would Say Order Nance Van Winckel's latest book from Amazon!

Nance Van Winckel Little Blue Heron Her with her primeval claw bent on my roofline. The way I can't dress in the morning until I've stood in the yard, looking up. The screech of her, tired from collecting tolls from the air. Her supreme busyness. Across the road, soon, soon: tithes of toads from the marsh. And never an opinion she must keep to herself. Her head cocked, and Look, look at the late hour --- and you, lady, still in your pink robe.