White Heron on Grey Canvas

in my cubicle i hear the quiet drone of the air conditioning:
the warp and woof of this place,
i'm sitting back in my ergonomic chair, closing my eyes,
and listening to that canvas—
gouached with the creamy grey paint of
keyboard taps and mouseclicks
drawers that open and close
a whisper
a solitary sneeze
a cough

this painting is just different shades of grey

until one day i step into the july sun and sit near the man-made pond,
and i see a white heron
gliding over the surface with hardly a wing beat or water ripple.
it descends into the pond’s edge and
i watch it wade gently ‘round the circumference by
holding one leg out of the water, then dipping it back in,
followed by the other, all the way around

i am silenced by its dance,
fruitless though it is

its imperfect circle contrasts my right angles
its gentle movement eases my sharp turns

its whiteness blasts through those greys, and it's gone

there’s no food here

but just for this moment, i am at ease