The Early Birds

Rustling cattails and birdsong fill the early morning air;

Wizened hands clasp together

As both bodies and bench creak with old age.

She greets the ducks as if they are family,

And with shaky hands, she tosses some grain

From a crumpled brown paper bag.

Orange webbed feet paddle towards the food,

Iridescent feathers glinting in morning light;

The quacking creatures appreciative of their breakfast.

The couple basks in the beauty of the pond:

Bright green trees and thick flowering bushes;

The colors of dawn reflecting in the water.

Then, behold, newcomers approach.

Tall and lean with stilt-like legs,

Their large feathered bodies glide across the sky

Before coming to rest near the pond’s edge.

One white and one grey—

“They look like us,” he remarks.

“Yes, and your white hair matches perfectly,” she teases.

The grey heron wades into the pond,

Still and serene, gazing across the water,

Not unlike the pair on the bench.

“I wish to be a bird sometimes: free and wandering,” he muses.

She smiles. “What about me?”

“You? Well, I always need my best girl by my side.”

She lays her head on his shoulder, gently squeezing his hand.

They sit there as the sun moves across the sky, as the ducks finish their meal,

As the herons fly away—to new ponds and new beginnings.

________

Originally penned April 13, 2024.