The Sandhill

In a swamp along Highway 49,
between Hattiesburg and Gulfport, Mississippi,
I saw standing, still and straight,
a long gray bird, beak jutting out
from under a small red patch
on a small gray head. He didn't seem
to be hunting swimming fish or frogs,
only watching,
watching the road,
the cars going by --
as if he owned everything he saw.
I wasn't one to argue.
I believed him as I drove by.