Great Blue Heron — Image by kenne
The wetlands wake slowly.
A coot leaves a trail across the water.
A breeze rattles the reeds.
Somewhere beyond the ponds, traffic begins
its daily argument with distance.
Then the blue heron rises.
His wings gather the morning light,
not brightly, not proudly—
just enough to reveal the strength
hidden inside feathers.
He moves over Sweetwater
the way memory moves through a life,
touching one place, then another,
never fully landing.
When he disappears behind the mesquite,
the silence he leaves behind
feels larger than the sky.
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