I slip through the veil of time
into primordial fog, forming then
disappearing, forming again over estuary mud,
all in scattered sunlight in misty motion.
The lowest of the tide about to turn,
solitary heron keeping watch, over silvered pilings from before my time,
in perfect stillness, outside of mankind’s world,
Ebb and flow, rise and fall,
fresh fog shrouds the heron, silhouetted in bronzed September late morning
Incoming tide, in full flow, changing this place again —
eternal rhythms, sacred space for all who come,
feeding my soul.
—by Neal Lemery