Crane

On misty marshes a crane does glide,
Feathers of slate, a quiet pride.
Long legs like stilts o’er reed and rush,
It watches waters with patient hush.

At dawn it lifts, a silent arch,
Wings spread wide in amber march,
A living bridge ’twixt earth and sky,
Where wind and water whisper low.

When night descends and stars alight,
The crane stands still, a sombre sight,
Reflecting moon upon the tide,
A graceful sentinel, dignified.