The air held a real chill that morning,
not that this worried the dog as we wandered
well trodden tracks through the woods,
around a bend, a large bird, a heron, came in view
sharing our path, it moved like a stiff old man,
incongruous, yet somehow natural too. I called the dog
and followed a few strides, expecting it to fly
but purposefully it strode ahead; for instincts knew
to stop meant danger. I wasn't sure quite what to do at first.
Much later, I retraced the route, along with the man
in the charity van, we searched for the haystack's needle,
the four-leafed clover on the forest floor,
till up ahead, hunched quiet against a tree,
as if it always knew the calvalry would come:
a quick brief try at flight, then gave in willingly.
Tucked under an arm, his verdict 'weak and thin',
thanked for my help, I watched the heron carried away.
The next day snow lay thickly, anyway.
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