again boomslang swims the high branches among a flutter of small birds and heron slowly measures the sky before the salt mist rushes the valley and the night sings of rain
heron flies on slow wings – carries nesting sticks to the rising sun. sets them precarious in the roosting tree. dreams the coming season.
mist waits low on autumn fields tangled in grass heads brittle as bird legs and bleached of seed. (in and through the pinking sky small wings have purred and wheeled, quickened the day, carved shadows from light) but heron stalks the morning, swirling silence with each careful footfall.