Amongst the flighted,
at the lake of isles,
I spot,
The long legged, narrow beak.
A hose necked, high rise
blue and white and black,
Surveying the glistening waters, and the prairie surrounding,
In all it's majestic prehistory,
Still skittish to my presence.
I spot also,
a tiny brown thing,
Fluttering, waving from stock to stock of the weightless golden pond grass,
A burst of a launch each time,
across the distance from flowing strand to flowing strand,
Always catching talons first, in show
of minuscule carnality.
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