The Great Egret

White plume stripped bare—

It is a long journey when the days are longer, years shorter,

Though the merry go’round must turn,

Ticking through the silver hours of morning.

And through earth's hum, the hum of cicadas beat to Springs bloom,

The horizon calls to the winds of East—softly she answers:

Change is coming.

And as the Egret perches, long and lithe, feathers composed,

The valley stiffens, listens to her ruffled breath–moss-filled lungs oxygenating the surface.

And through the wayward marshes, its tall arms billow in harmony:

There is nothing left for you—you shall learn to fly.

White plume stripped bare—The Great Egret croons:

Who will I become?