by Dietrich Balsbaugh
His grilled peaches were,
undoubtedly,
what brought them down,
the jealous, greedy things,
to drink the juice
from our plates and fingers.
This sent us screaming
into the house
where we would turn in awe
to see him seated
as still as stone
in the gathering cloud.
Slowly,
his wrinkled hand
took up a fork,
and shaking a little,
like old hands do,
it then became a heron.
Holding our breath,
we watched him hunt:
waiting, then striking hornets one by one.
Dietrich Balsbaugh is a writer living in South Bend, IN. His poems have appeared in Veritas Journal and Ekstasis Magazine. He spends his free time reading out loud to his family, taking walks with his wife, and birding along the river.
header image: “Southern Yellowjacket (Vespidae, Vespula squamosa)“ insectsunlocked, CC0 1.0.
