How Heron Comes

It is a negligence of the mind

not to notice how at dusk

heron comes to the pond and

stands there in his death robes, perfect

servant of the system, hungry, his eyes

full of attention, his wings

pure light.

I think how often I have been negligent in my mind.

I watch the juvenile young men gather on the sidewalk at sun set, suspecting their every thought and action as reproachable and full of danger. I cross the street to the other side to avoid any close association with them or to put myself in harm's way.

Oh you say, that is prudent, you know how young men are. There is too much testosterone pumping in their veins to trust them.

Well then what about the person in the car ahead of me who flings trash?  The hunter?  The drug dealer?  The addict?  The wily politician?  My slow moving self this morning who almost forgot to bow to the moon high in the lightening sky?

Are we not all perfect servants of the system?

Our hunger brings us life, our knowing of this brings us light.

May you have such illumination this morning, this day.

For what are you hungry?