Poem: Herons Quietly Fishing


They are so serious so sober
squabbling among the tops of cedars
trunk and soil stained with poop and pong
but never ever a whiff of fun.

But I see them at the shore fishing
always in the moment, not waiting
for things to pass, not passive
but a patience that’s pro-active
watching, waiting, alert for the apt
to skewer a snack or sidestep danger’s grasp,
and, quietly, never needing to rush.

Such a peaceful world
needing not to rush.

By Bob T

Poem: Ode to the Sun

Poem: The Red Camellias