We reach the top of the little hill
through the muddy forest
suddenly noticing the heron
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
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 tiny pieces of mountains?