
The Heron
We were, all of us, out for our mandated walk, feet encrusted with garlic dust, my girl clutching stellar bundles of flowers to make ART mummy when over there, there between the trees, there where the Noddleburn thinks of becoming the sea, a heron shifted its ragged self, weighing its wings. I stopped, watched while the kids bickered their way on, so only I saw as the heron leapt, claiming the air.