Evening Before the Diagnosis
Marcia L. Hurlow
Right now, Dylan, I’m fighting
as I march along the lake,
my pit bull pulling me
to the grey edge of shore
to rage at a heron. It flies
with a ragged screech
to a farther bank. Its nest,
I’m sure, crackles with young
and their pale wings rise
in hunger as the mother
lands. It’s all expectation.
She might have a fish.
Nothing, now, is a question.