Batonnets? Fantastic!


   Battonets de Bonbon boxes lay damp on the parking lot. Candy Sticks, Fantastic! shouts the lettering.

   How quiet is this day, that you can hear a box of candy shouting! At the place I like to walk, the water is low. The water is so low it appears to have stopped streaming altogether and the autumn leaves that have dropped into it just sit there on top, as if it were a pond in the woods. No flow, no go – yet always on its way, fed by unseen springs.

    The herons are still, too. It is as if they are frozen in action, but 73 degrees air temperature is too warm for that. One heron, two herons, three herons. The third heron stands on the arch of a branch that is in the creek like an eyebrow, a left eyebrow.

   I have found a purple ribbon and tied it around my wrist thinking “Lembranca do Senhor do Bonfim da Bahia.” I have a fita.

   Past the overpass and on the bend, motion in the airspace over the creek draws my attention to a great wingspan. At first I think it is a heron, and whether the heron spun off and went elsewhere and was replaced by an eagle or whether it was an eagle to begin with, is undetermined.

    I think it was an eagle, but I did not have on an American Eagle Outfitter outfit, so I can’t be sure. I think it was a bald eagle, white of cap, that circled and tilted and circled as I watched and  held my breath and watched, until it landed, past my persicopic range.

   On the way back the third heron was the first, and it was meaty and strong and standing still on the arch of the eyebrow that was its podium and it looked to me like a champion, an Olympic athlete waiting to receive its medal. The second heron, a younger, slenderer bird, stood in the creek. The remaining heron was  the blush on the apple of a cheek. It occupied some silt that made a cheekbone in the water, and its bill looked extremely long and capable of stabbing a big fish in this small pond –  this stream that is not Old Man River but seems to have acquired a few facial features this fall.

   A young man that was running,  has removed his muscle shirt by his vehicle in the parking lot. A huge American flag and Bald Eagle tattoo decorates his left shoulder blade. Of that, I am sure. His physique is a firm he owns.

   I pick up two of the blue Batonnets De Bonbon candy stick boxes. Limp with the rain, the cardboard unfolds easily and each box makes its own little plot plan, its own layout plain to see. I am nothing, if not empty. I work like a charm.

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