Far from Miami I Think of Miami
BY Ellene Glenn Moore
For a few moments I was from—
from in the capacious sense
of borrowed nostalgia—I was from
a concrete condo whose windows, on tiptoes,
just barely glimpsed the ocean.
Some mornings, quarter mile off shore,
a tanker spun,
great mobile caught in a small wind.
I congratulated myself on the color of the water.
Afternoons, the sky boiled over and I imagined
the indigo and cobalt underbelly of the clouds
had something—anything—to do with my regard for it.
You can see where this is going.
Once in a boat I drifted through mangroves, their arms
glowing white in the low light
and only just, in that dusk,
happened upon a heron readying herself to plunge.
Her wide eye stilled.
I saw her see me. I see her now. Her body
is ribbon, light,
slight as a needle from native pine.
She curves inward—it’s always inward—
bill resting on breast,
as though she is speaking
to her own bright heart.