Delicate

Sometimes in the right light, when I'm quiet enough with my paddle, I can see them down there below me. They hover effortlessly, dark and quiet, their fins moving delicately.

Tiny insects skim the surface of the water paddling furiously, leaving the faintest of ripples.

A spider spins a web on a branch hanging over the still water.

There is no one - not another human soul - on the lake tonight. It is then I see the heron.



Long-legged, woeful, she stands alone on an extended branch eyeing me with one gold, tiny-pupiled eye. We sit in silence for a long time, watching each other, sizing each other up. She is patient with me as I snap pictures of her. She must be heavy - she is a big bird. But she looks as weightless and graceful as wind.

The lake is low and green, algae rising from summer's last horrah. It is delicate here, this world, and even the slow ripple of my paddle starts a reaction.

The sun sets. Steam rises from the water. I am reset, like a clock in spring.