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.