Thursday, November 10, 2011
The hawks, fully reunited, greet the winter sunrise.
By the time I leave for work, the sun is well up. The tiny speck in the center is a blue heron. Leonard McKinney told me these water birds carry prayers from the tipis. For the last dozen years, there has been a heron frequenting this pond and the creek around my house. As large as it is, I never hear it until it takes flight some yards ahead of me. It is such a large bird, and so unexpected, and its wings makes such a noise, that it never fails to make my heart race.
A heron must live most of its life alone in the still places, by quiet water. I understand. My westernized mind cannot always grasp the things the Indians tell me, but when I become still enough, like the water, I know these birds for certain carry the prayers.
Returning home at moonrise.
And at the end of another day, I see the heron feeding in the last moments of daylight.