Openings

Soft squish of boots, gurgling footprints following a plodding tread. The riverbed speaks as it enters the mud writes also, a drainage of rivulets cursively signs the rivers name over and over again. As my dark form appears sleepy herons wing-beat air What am I doing here, here where twilight shades loom so damp and charcoal gray? Yesterday, rowing a boat a liquid sunlight upon the water, seeing this nook of land, the way it was so like an aperture, a place emerging and opening a piece of hinterland where a person could walk on its melding surface. At this darkening hour walking to where a skiff was yesterday looking out from this small inlet only to spy another opening, an elemental herons dreamscape not noticed before.