Herons
Forget the falcon. Forget the vulture. Forget the cloud of sparrows.
Give me a heron.
Long legged embodiment of the death knell. Silent witness to the world. Heron shadows rush up to meet their owners landing swift, silent, and huge.
They are huddled in a cloak and walk on stilts. They are bitter secret-keepers. They’ve hidden the keys where you can’t find them. They are storm-watchers. It’s not disdain that they give off, nor anything fearful.
It’s a queer seethe. A creaking of ancient simmering anger masked by affected indifference. They are shades. They almost haunt.
Herons think about what could have been.
They don’t give off a sense of danger, regardless of how easy it is to picture that long beak plunging into flesh.
They walk behind the world slowly, hands behind their back in the eternal sign of thought, worry, prisoners, old age, and soldiers at ease. They strut without pride.
Herons are preoccupied and focused at the same time.
They lack the dedication of the raven’s darkness. They don’t have the commitment of the Crow. They don’t possess the plumage or power of other long-legged birds. They don’t have the freakish, ungainly, stapled-together nature of buzzards or pelicans.
Herons are damp. Their feathers are almost fur. They carefully place their feet in the shallow border between the wet world and the dry.
If not for their grace and aristocratic poise, it could be said that Herons pout. If there were more fierceness to the Heron’s gaze, it would be said that they brood. They step in and out of this plane of existence with ease.
They are the trench-coat wearing cloak-and-dagger spies that report back to the keepers of the shores.
I picture them taking off their coats and beaks. I picture them unbuckling their stilts and leaning them against the door. I picture them relaxing, grey-skinned and harrow-eyed, and smiling.
tags
Give me a heron.
Long legged embodiment of the death knell. Silent witness to the world. Heron shadows rush up to meet their owners landing swift, silent, and huge.
They are huddled in a cloak and walk on stilts. They are bitter secret-keepers. They’ve hidden the keys where you can’t find them. They are storm-watchers. It’s not disdain that they give off, nor anything fearful.
It’s a queer seethe. A creaking of ancient simmering anger masked by affected indifference. They are shades. They almost haunt.
Herons think about what could have been.
They don’t give off a sense of danger, regardless of how easy it is to picture that long beak plunging into flesh.
They walk behind the world slowly, hands behind their back in the eternal sign of thought, worry, prisoners, old age, and soldiers at ease. They strut without pride.
Herons are preoccupied and focused at the same time.
They lack the dedication of the raven’s darkness. They don’t have the commitment of the Crow. They don’t possess the plumage or power of other long-legged birds. They don’t have the freakish, ungainly, stapled-together nature of buzzards or pelicans.
Herons are damp. Their feathers are almost fur. They carefully place their feet in the shallow border between the wet world and the dry.
If not for their grace and aristocratic poise, it could be said that Herons pout. If there were more fierceness to the Heron’s gaze, it would be said that they brood. They step in and out of this plane of existence with ease.
They are the trench-coat wearing cloak-and-dagger spies that report back to the keepers of the shores.
I picture them taking off their coats and beaks. I picture them unbuckling their stilts and leaning them against the door. I picture them relaxing, grey-skinned and harrow-eyed, and smiling.
tags