In those hands, 

like the wings of a heron in a prayer

As they waved through air,

And feet that trudge and glide

As time did slide,

In the flight of an artist in making,

Or disappearing,

Hunched by heavy hauls 

of what seemed like 

farfetched and frozen dreams

I heard the hums of a song,

and speaking silences.

Faint ripples on the surface of a river

Disguised some currents 

strong.

And I wonder if 

the heron will find its way back to its nest,

before dusk. Or will it make another,

Afraid of its own reflection,

On some foreign and distant land.