Walking with my sons,
Fall morning on the foot path,
I push them in their stroller,
twins casting eyes on the world.
The path meanders like a snake,
slithering by the creek,
marsh land overgrown with weeds.
More drainage ditch than water way,
a stream crossing the flood plain.
It is there we see it,
tall avian with stilt legs,
colored white with black wings,
watchful eyes with long beak.
We stop and stare,
real nature at our door.
The heron pays no attention,
gazes at the water looking for frogs.
Soon, too, it will be gone,
urban sprawl claiming habitat.
But what world will my sons have,
without herons to start their day?
Startled, the bird takes to air.
My sons watch it fly away.
By Carl Wade Thompson
Carl Wade Thompson is a poet, essayist, and the graduate writing tutor at Texas Wesleyan University. He has published poetry and memoir essays in The Mayo Review, The Concho River Review, One in Four, Anak Sastra, The Galway Review, The Blue Collar Review, Piker Press, The Eunoia Review, Blue Minaret, Nebo Literary Magazine, Alphelion Literary Webzine, and Labor: Studies in Working-Class History of the Americas. He lives on the outskirts of Fort Worth, Texas. His poems explore the link between the urban and the rural.
Photo of Great Blue Heron by Steff Starr