The Heron

When I leave my house and turn the corner I always come across a heron standing there. The heron is waiting, waiting for old bread from a balding fat neighbour.

The heron stands totally still. His endless searching for fish in his natural habitat has been replaced by endlessly waiting for bread. He doesn’t even move when I ride by on my bike. This Tuesday morning he’s just standing there in the drizzle looking like a large grey dripping wax candle. He’s waiting for his stale moldy piece of bread with nothing spread on it, from a neighbor who long ago ceased to conform to human standards.

But I know. I just know that incredible images are etched in his bird brain of the most beautiful fields in the world. Unending fields of rushes never seen by human eye, nor ever will be, where the sun is always red as it sinks from the sky. These images are in the heron’s memory. This heron knows how it feels to stand in quiet summery waters where the morning mists swirl and then disappearing roll back to reveal the largest fish banquet in the world.

I am certain that this heron will soon unfurl his concealed wings to soar into the wide blue sky. He will soon be through the layer of grey drizzle quickly leaving the Tuesday morning city behind him. He will irrevocably reach the blue expanse of sky above the clouds leaving us city folk far behind him. He will reach unspoiled fields and lands. He will.......

Go on..go!