I grow weary of the cinema

by Zoe Abedon

after seeing a gray heron whose eyes behold
  me the way eyes should
cradling within them the highest
  incarnation of my being
reminding me of a place
  which grows stubborn in my memory

How beholden I am to this other
  this bird
perched on a single limb
  the leg itself and the webbed foot
disrupting the river and the river
  sashaying through the forest on
  undulant hips
pushing up moss and mushroom and
  ferns with bundles of spores
impatient to sear the great emptiness
  gasping of life that careens into existence
singing Oh birth! Oh birth! what I would do
  to exist only in the soft thaw of my origin
longing at last for the world to create me
  well before I create the world