Ode to a hanged heron

The sky holds shades of sangria and iris
reproduced in a quiet river beneath.
White tower blocks disturbing its beauty,
looming in shadows of the stale, stagnant air.
I search you out across the water,
landing on your stark white shock of breast,
Your body hanging limp and heavy,
swinging joyfully in the mean wind.
I wonder: How did you get into this state?
Proud neck clamped between two young hungry branches...
Some said you struggled to escape them at first,
then succumbed to inevitability.
The staunch carrion survey the scene:
stark black sentinels of suicide,
still protecting you from who knows what.
Those stubborn branches are unyielding,
keeping you from such sweet redemption –
the silent, waiting river below.