Today three heron in the first mile make me stop counting. This is the encounter.
The same stroke that brushed the heron-body feathers swept the surface of the creek sideways. The water has turned gold from essence of sunrise and the plumage grey with the spirit of clean slate. Black and white have entered into a contract to furnish the contrast and nature’s butler burnished the rest.
A heron on rock in midstream forms a piece of statuary, while a squirrel motions up tree, across a tenter-hook tightrope twig and onto the Acropolis of another trunk.
The heron wishing for minnows among the rubbish heap of drooping leaf and creek detritus is missing when I return back by to winnow the fishes.
I stop in the Big Top brand grocery for a russet tuber and a bottle of alchemy to make potato visas and look into the eyes of my beloved in the interim. A sparrow chirps in the aerie of the airy vestibule. The opposing automatic sliding glass doors stand open.