Heron

 Flapping, flapping,

flapping their long 

heavy wings;

flapping their long 

heavy wings they lope

across the surface of

the waters into the

mystic fog that blankets

this moist morning air.

So close, so close

the feathers come

to tracing their lines 

along the river; so close 

and yet not touching 

the wetness just

below their edges.  

Not one.

Not one heron.

Not one feather.

Not one barbule.  

Not one drop.

Into the fog.  Quietly 

Into the fog.  All.

And now,

none.