As we
walked back from the river, down by the farmer's fields,
as the wild clouds
circled overhead, and then rambled by,
I caught sight of the first Great Blue
Heron of the year, silently floating down through air streams, down past all the whirling
trees and the swooshing winds,
down past us, past the Starling Convention and
the Robins searching for lunch, down to the quiet banks of the Connecticut, on their
own.
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