The Heron

 

 

heron

 

 

 

 

 

 

The heron never comes here

anymore

to stand in silence,

watchful.

Time was

he would fly in low

honking

and wait

on the tallest post.

She might glide in then,

quietly

on graceful silver wings

and settle on a lower perch

near him.

Can the heron recall

sweet times with his mate

fishing

clear water

until a fog swallowed her

leaving him

a ghostly sentinel?

He’s flown away now

from what is not.

Perhaps that’s why

the heron never comes here

anymore.

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2 thoughts on “The Heron

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