I saw Pina Bausch heron dancing down the grassy median of a tree-lined boulevard. She wore a blue shirt, black pants, and was otherwise unchanged by death. As she went, she brushed her chest with her flight feathers. Then, she seemed to preen and roost in the high branches of an evergreen. I knew—as one sometimes does when dreaming—that I had brought her into being, that she was in some way part of me, so what explained my difficulty in keeping up? Her blurring at the edges, in extremis? All I know is I have seen the heron move this way a handful of times. Gathering, gathering itself and then stooping into flight.
The Massachusetts Review