Eugene Bragdon, Ph.D. 1935 — 1999 Colleague, friend, gentleman... he will be missed.

White Heron What lifts the heron leaning on the air I praise without a name. A crouch, a flare, a long stroke through the cumulus of trees, a shaped thought at the sky - then gone.      O rare! Saint Francis, being happiest on his knees, would have cried Father! Cry anything      you please But praise. By any name or none. But      praise the white original burst that lights the heron on his two soft kissing kites. When saints praise heaven lit by doves      and rays, I sit by pond scums till the air recites Its heron back. And doubt all else.      But praise. - John Ciardi