The heron stalks along the river's edge.
Deliberately, it sets its foot among
The twisting roots that rise up through the still,
Half-green, half-muddy surface of the water,
All murky in the hanging treeline's shade.
Dragonflies drift above the sunset glare;
Our heron, meanwhile, scans the water's face,
Intently looking, searching, here, then there,
Its red eyes glinting in the twilight gloom.
I sigh, and lower my binoculars.
Copyright by Ike Wassom, 2015. All rights reserved.