Wise Heron

I asked a graceful heron: would you rather
that death came in midflight, out of the blue?
Before the years have had their chance to gather --
each sunrise is as fresh as morning dew,
a jumping frog still sends a thrill of pleasure,
and standing on one leg maintains its charm;
your pointy beak adept at finding treasure
and mighty wings that keep you out of harm
with but a single flap of quill and feather?
Or is old age a better way to die,
your skin an older, thinner brand of leather,
the wings no longer strong enough to fly?
So wise, the heron, but he wouldn't say.
Just nodded a goodbye. Then flew away.