Over the lake,
the heron flew,
Until the murky December
of swirling snow,
Without the creature,
the sky is dark,
The snowflakes fly,
crisp and strong,
taking the place
Of the spindly bird.
Opposite
this season
the heron will soar,
free
from locks of
deadly cold.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
