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#45 The Heron

The Heron (710mm x 890mm acrylic)

The stream had been silent for many months, a quiet place to sit and contemplate life as the waxbills fluttered and dragonflies buzzed from reed to reed, the calm water finding a natural meandering route down the valley and into the sea, bisecting a world of not enough time and looming deadlines, the honking of horns and endlessly ringing telephones. And each time I went and sat by the stream I saw the heron, silently waiting till a frog let down its guard, or a fish swam lazily by.

That was till the west wind brought the first of the rains, the river swelled and burst its banks, spilling washed up leaves and broken twigs onto the land, and I looked around and the heron had gone, its favourite spot inundated with tumbling waters. So I decided to followed the stream as it now cascaded down the valley and into the sea, and there the heron stood, waiting for another frog to lets its guard down or a fish to come swimming by, and as the years have passed I  learned that this is the way of the heron. In summer he stands under the shadow of the willow tree and waits, and when the west winds blow he flies lazily down to the mouth at the edge of the sea. I now know where to look for him, and I too now move with the seasons, more in synch with the rhythms of nature, and a heron I have come to know well.


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