A wingspan so wide it soared beyond the sidewalklike a small plane. I turned, I had to turn, find where it landed,a wader, crested, long-billed, short-legged.It was dark by now, a crowd had come to watchthe heron standing in a patch of weeds and butts,a sculpted thing, a bronze, its head plumes almostCorinthian. Slowly it lifted each blade-thin legand then with one swift thrust, cracked its bill,snatched a bulging rat it chugged down whole."It's heavy," you cried, heaving yourself up, pushingout your arms to stop the fluid from filling your lungs.I could touch you when you died—toes, earlobes,soft fringe of hair at the nape of your neck. I could holdyour hand as it turned to parchment, then to gold.