Heron

pounding
against cold morning air.
wings of wonder
carry him west,
alone.

as his brothers
skeined south,
across the winter sky,
he alone
sought a new way.

lost with purpose
and confused
with passion,
he beats furiously
at the past
until he weeps.

and then beats some more.

they call him wise
and ask for direction.
they call him wanderer
and beg for tales.
but they never call him
friend,
and offer love.

but,
on this day,
the future calls.
perhaps peace awaits-
for some short time.

fly my friend,
and thank you.