The Heron Who Thought he was Grand

In a fern-fringed bog near a trickling stream,
Where the cattails danced in an artist’s dream,
Lived a heron so tall with a neck so proud,
He’d bow to his shadow and wink at a cloud.

He’d strut through the rushes on stick-legged grace,
Like a dandy out shopping for feathers and lace.
With a tilt of his beak and a flap of his wings,
He fancied himself among royalty things.

“Good morning!” he’d chirp to a passing frog,
(Who promptly dove deep in the shade of a log),
“Make way for the Baron of Bog and of Pond—
Of lilies I’m lord, and of minnows I’m fond!”

The daisies all curtsied, the willows would sigh,
The crickets composed him a chirruping cry.
But the turtles just smirked, and the dragonflies fled,
For the Baron wore pond scum atop his fine head.

Yet he posed for the painters with elegant poise,
Ignoring the bullfrogs and their croaking noise.
“A touch more cerulean!” the heron did squawk,
“And paint out that cattail—it muddles my walk!”

So, remember this tale if you strut through a bog,
With your beak in the air and disdain for the frog,
Beneath all your posture, and fine feathered preen,
You’re still stabbing fishes where the pond scum is green.