The old grey heron flies across the lonely lake,
Solitary and alone he flaps his melancholy wings,
Head tilted as he breathes cold October air,
Swings in idle motion to catch the quaking branch,
Perches above the fallen leaves and silently,
Oh, so silently sighs before he starts again and
Sails across the water toward the blood-red sun.
Even in the silence, I sense the liquid feeling
Echoing from lake to golden trees upon the hills,
Burning in the chill of autumn sky…
An eternal spirit present in the heart of nature,
Living, dying, flying the way a sudden thought
Takes unhurried flight within the resting mind—
The way the heron slowly soars, quietly into dark.