Wednesday

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 of this photo 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.

When I am along the creek, even as large as the heron is, I never notice it or hear it until it takes flight some yards ahead of me. It is such a large bird, its presence 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.