Who is the anonymous sculptor of a heron created from bread, sticks and purple feathers and how did the creator get the enormous wiggle-eye to stabilize? This is the burning question, compound as it is. The answer is in the question.
Walked this morning without spotting a heron. Running people abounded. Attended writer’s group at Borders, Wyomissing, arrranged in a circle along with 17 writers. Listened to the writers speak their stories and poems: children and cops and robbers and thought safaris, war, feeding the hungry, mystery and string theory, the usual subjects. Read short-story micro-fiction called DEAR.
The heron sculpture stood by the driver’s side doorto my car, in the parking lot on the white line. The black and white toggle eye staring toward heaven, the purple feathers jutting from its derriere, two slices of bread on stilts, like a Tennessee River House, combine as a creature of spectacular architecture and engineering. I am impressed.
If and when I ever get this damn camera uploading thing snafu straightened out, the bird might have its fifteen minutes, minimum. Either that or it will serve as inspiration for a business card. It’s a challenge to take a heron home in the car with you. Is it a crime?