Herons and owls

Circumstances, good or bad

Or, yet to be seen

Have found me here in this

Shotgun shack

Silent, now

And unnoticed in the world

Save for a view, askance

And the occasional

"do you remember"s and "what was his name"s

That fill the most casual of conversations

Free, now

To curse the moon for shining

And the sun, for not

Freed, to rail against ignorance

And apathy, but quietly, always

Lest, I reveal my own

The trees, in all their grace, are keeping secrets

Their roots, twined as they are, like lovers

Hold close, both stone and bone

Their branches, as arms held high in praise

Touch laced fingers in hallelujahs

Praying over the river

And the river, so sure of its destination

But, somewhat doubtful of the journey

Clings like a small child to the heron's leg

How I envy him, the heron, his patience

Standing one-legged and aloof

His understanding of balance

And the owls, wide eyed and awake

Torment my nights with their incessant

And single minded inquiries

The very questions I ask myself