In the far shallows, still and faint,
the heron waits, all coming storm
and thunder, and yet all restraint.
Waits unquivering, cool, controlled,
for that dark riot of feathered flame
from his still heart wingward to unfold,
wakened by some bone-deep desire.
Three hard strokes of daunting wideness
and he is gone.
Something to Consider
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