By the Findhorn river where no man is standing,
Theres a white post of a station, called Heron.

We watch the jumpy water, iced up at the edges
Its flow caught in cold.

Heron in stealth and I in peace for a while.
On different banks, and I am a hunter of sorts.

We see a mammal movement,
An otter. Athlete and champion.
We surrender to its wild catching.
It's thrash ends our hunt.

Heron flies to my bank.
We shift to audience,
These small moments
A wordless solution to trouble.