Sunday, April 5

Ghost Heron

i welcome the greening
i’ll miss
the fishermen,
their knee to chest gait
through the muck

they don’t mind the intrusion
they’re pulling the curtain
across the stage
of my gaze

until the eye rests here,
at the edge of a thicket
instead of there,
along the shallows
of a meandering creek
where fishermen
dine in private

here i sit
on the other side of waiting
for the fall,
wanting memory’s apparition
to emerge

when the greening
will retreat again
from sight

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