Thursday, May 28, 2015


There stands a heron on the ledge, smooth chestnut wood, carved by a twelve-year-old boy. 

It watches the day, chin raised; body taut and upright. Eyes invisible; knowing. It’s a good-looking bird and seems to know it.

That boy is now fifty-seven. The heron lives on in upright, polished youth, watching the day with knowing, invisible eyes.

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