Surprised by my sudden appearance, the heron spreads its powerful wings, spring-loads its long elastic neck and then leaps up from the shoreline into the air, the whoosh of its wing-beats clearly audible. It flies low and out over the water until spied by a boater who turns and, increasing his speed, pursues it like a cheetah.
He chases it across the lake and into the woods of the opposite shore before veering sharply back out into the channel again, and his other Sunday amusements: it is in the most casual of acts that I become deeply afraid for our fate.
He chases it across the lake and into the woods of the opposite shore before veering sharply back out into the channel again, and his other Sunday amusements: it is in the most casual of acts that I become deeply afraid for our fate.
in cast off molt
the small dark tips
of the crawdad’s eyes
by Gary LeBel
Cumming, Georgia
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