Margin

The sun will rise like a golden fish over the far bank, but for now a cobwebbed sky clings to the curling water. This is the margin where dawn issues through nights last gleams its first ghostly drifts. The dewy day is ushered outwards, a veiled lace flecked with gold. Reeds rustle, stir a dark mud into green ripples. Dragonflies climb stems to temper damp wings. A standing heron appears, its eyes are star-bright. Anhinga and coots, pluck mist from their plumage. The day floods up to paint itself beneath high flying feathers the hunter waits, gun at the ready, but he will miss for the margin has hidden his aim amid glittering shadows.