Heron Healing…

 

Watching nesting herons at a place that my Dad loved is a wonderful way to pay tribute to both fowl and father.

Here, nestled along cattails, swamp grass, and long dead trees, is a place that a sense of healing can be attained.

It doesn’t have to be of the traumatic type; it can be a time and place where one can go to collect their thoughts, to ponder things…to just simply breathe.

Here then, couched amongst rocks and pines and a turbid lagoon, one can relax and be one with nature. To engage all five senses in such a scene is to revel in the splendor of what nature reveals.

Sitting upon a rock, thinking of dear Pops, a lone heron flaps slowly into view, its magnificent wings seemingly in slow motion as it makes its usual u-turn in flight to arrive at its destination. It alights upon a spindly pine festooned with a profusion of sticks, a crude but effective nest for their offspring.

I sit, and listen.

A tiny frog appears nearby, perched upon a sodden hummock, and utters a single croak. It eyes me warily, a silent interloper plunged within his watery world. I gaze at the dead trees, and witness young herons squawking in their nests, flapping their wings in anticipation of first flight. Further on, a kettle of hawks effortlessly ride the thermals, circling ever higher in a hypnotically dervish swirl.

Come Father’s Day, perhaps I will be here once again, honoring my dear Pops, and these wonderful, primordial sentinels of the swamp.

My Dad loved this place, and I think he would have liked to have read this post.

I love you, Dad.

Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.

 

 

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