TerraNova Practice Test 11

Heron, Before School

¹Each morning at the culvert where the creek

²slides under Mill Road like a kept secret,

³the heron stands, a gray umbrella folded shut,

⁴so still the minnows forget him.

⁵I am always late. I am always running,

⁶backpack slapping, one shoelace loose,

⁷the bus already grinding up the hill—

⁸and still I stop.

⁹He does not hurry. He has never hurried.

¹⁰He lifts one foot as if the water

¹¹were a room where someone sleeps

¹²and sets it down without a ripple.

¹³Once I saw him strike:

¹⁴a flash, a silver twist, and then

¹⁵that same unbothered stillness, as though

¹⁶nothing at all had happened.

¹⁷The bus driver honks. My friends wave

¹⁸through fogged windows, laughing.

¹⁹I run. But all day, in the bright,

²⁰loud hallways, between the bells,

²¹I carry a small gray patience

²²folded up inside me

²³like something I was given

²⁴and have not yet learned to use.