The Twin Cities’ area is still looking over its shoulder after the tornadoes that ripped through North Minneapolis on Sunday afternoon. Friends who live near there have spoken of the devastation and the sadness of seeing many who were already living on the economic edge now dealing with no roof, no power, needing help with services many of us take for granted. While no where near as destructive as the storms in Missouri, these hurts close to home have held our thoughts, our prayers. They also have reminded many of us about the power of perspective as we take stock of the ups and downs of our days.

We certainly know that when storms of this magnitude move through any populated area the damage does not fall on humans alone. We are, after all, a part of an intricately woven Creation. To see the trees that were uprooted and split along block after block is a gentle reminder that these are homes, too. Home to birds and animals, all as fragile and as easily displaced as humans.

This morning I read about the heron rookery that existed on one of the lakes in the path of the storm’s winds. Several dozen great blue heron nests called these trees home. In those trees were nests, each holding two or three young herons, fresh and new to the world. After the storm, the mature herons, their strong deep blue wings soaring, were seen circling overhead looking for their young, for a sign of their former homes. What a tragic sight that must have been.

I thought of my favorite poet, Mary Oliver, who has written so often about the beautiful herons she has observed in her many years as a poet and lover of all that lives. In a recent book of her poetry she writes:

“It is a negligence of the mind
not to notice how at dusk
heron comes to the pond and
stands there in his death robes, perfect
servant of the system, hungry, his eyes
full of attention, his wings,
pure light.”

Those interviewed in the paper who know about herons and other ones with wings, seemed less troubled than I was at their plight. They spoke of how the herons are survivors and will  continue to live out their summer life and will make their way back to this place next spring. The fallen trees, they reminded, will now become home to other birds who make their homes closer to the ground, nearer to the water. The herons will rebuild their nests and begin again. It is the way it works. These ‘servants of the system’ understand perhaps things we in our city mentalities do not. They will cast their pure light on what is yet to be.

Unlike the herons, humans may find it difficult to see much past the devastation at this point. But I do know that there are countless people who, at this very moment,  are carrying food and water, chopping up fallen trees and hauling debris, reaching out to neighbors whose names they had not known before Sunday. Within hours, people were collecting money to fuel the work that needs to be done. Prayers were said and continue to float in the air, hovering over the streets and blue tarps that act as roofs, much like the outstretched wings of the herons over the rookery.

Pure light. Pure light.