Slow Sink

Few years ago, I drifted on a wetland
swiveling through the pewter 
of evening as contours of statelv herons
 unfolded...velvety the feathers white,
 and ablaze by clear Asian ripples of before.

Yet, from a visit today, my eyes
follow them along weeds...
their poses now limp from a gray night 
through rows of frail blooms, fumbling
 along a marsh looking old; 
their feet throttling in slow sink of  motion
against those once radiant plumes:

In quiet reflection, I imagine 
these birds' pliqht amidst 
nature's environ , steeped in frail
passages of late life stages unattended:

How I weep for these herons' destination
 beyond soiled grasses
as I wrap my fingers in prayer, 
relishing this instance where 
I gaze at an avian delight,
slowly yet wondrously aging through my eyes.

birdintrospectionimagism

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