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.