Title poem of a collection by the Norwegian poet Thor Sørheim

HERON HEIGHTS

In the tops of the black alder trees the nests sway

like dark suns, on the edge sits the male heron

sharp as a dagger, keeping a watchful eye on rats and mice

creeping below in the marsh, the moss that crawls

over tree-trunks and stones, it is early

March, and suddenly wings unfold from the nest,

hoarse screeches creak like rotten trees, there is a smell

of bogwater, bird droppings and frogs, the heron gazes

fixedly at the dangers on the forest floor, it is still

so early on yet that a screech makes sense

for those guarding the eggs just a few metres

from the cars that change strategy twice a year,

and when the herons leave the nest in April

to stand motionless in the reeds before lunging for fish

they still have the heron heights close by, the place

where life begins hoarsely and secretly,

with a bird’s-eye view of the catch

and the certainty that danger is never over.