Every other bird scattered,
except the night herons, who didn’t stir a bit,
hunched on single legs on single branches.
I almost think I could write about it forever,
adding word to word like coral in a reef,
an excess of language like the genetic code, an extravagance like all the stars,
too much ever to be needed except
by the need for there always to be more,
that need which, when the end comes, looks past it
for woods and hills and ocean,
for fields and streets and houses and horizon,
repelled by blankness, expecting beyond sleep
the dream country and its population.
Mark Jarman, from “The Heronry,” The Heronry (Sarabande Books, 2017)