How the Wood Storks Broke My Heart

Afternoon, late March, delivering promise of downtime from errands, long lines at the post, queues of cars at stoplights, what, if anything, is in the pantry for supper. A glass of wine is nice, will suffice against the mind's continuous monolog, news of unrest in distant lands, world hunger, and men on South Africa's wild coast who believe raping small girls will cure them of their AIDS. For respite, I turn to the wood storks and two world-class pines, sending a blessing of straw and symmetrical cones into protective lake growth, sealing its borders with a scrim of airy viridian; birthright of sea birds seeking evening asylum. So, what to do about an invasion of enormous jaws that take no prisoners on a battlefield of buzz saws? Machetes, felling pines, wild shrubs, and indigenous palmettos with which landscapers decorate yards of costly homes. Development, Progress, New Construction? Words to glamorize rape of wetlands. The storks are flying away, now, from across the lake, where once in heart-stopping numbers they bivouacked against the advent of night. This day, this hour, they take wing, bird by bird in a ghostly exodus, taking their "Reflection of nearly all light from all visible wave links," purer than masses of lilies on an Easter grave.