We reach the top of the little hill

through the muddy forest

suddenly noticing the heron

still, silhouetted

by the green-brown pool reflecting the sun

the “croaaak” of a frog echoes.

At my intake of breath

shadow wings spread pushing up

out onto the sky and stroking away

receding to the horizon.

On the way back down

We pass a pile of rocks gleaming in the afternoon sun

As we continue past, my mind is on

happy beaches of polished and dull stones

piling, sorting

hours just scooping wet holes

down through the layers

of finer pebbles just big enough

to see a bit of color

thinking maybe I could dig

down to the place where the rock

cradles the beach to the ocean’s breast

that pure touch of water

that grinds the mountains into sand.

The dog did not say much only walked and peed

happy to have walked and come home.

When I am on the beach

will I think of the heron?

or the pile of rocks by the road to my house?

or ocean?

or tiny pieces of mountains?