The Far Shore

When the heron was young,
he fished the entire river
throughout the valley.

From the northern reeds
to the southern marshes,
he knew every shallow bend
and hidden pool.

At dawn,
he would leave one shore
and not return
until moonrise.

He loved distance.

He loved the feeling
of moving toward
somewhere else.

Years passed.

Then more years.

The heron’s wings
grew heavier in winter.

Crossing the wide river
against strong wind
became difficult.

So little by little,
he stopped traveling
to the far shore.

Instead,
he remained near
an old willow tree
on the eastern bank.

At first,
this felt like defeat.

The same reeds.
The same stones.
The same bend
in the slow current.

While younger birds
crossed the river freely,
he stood in the same waters
day after day.

But as the seasons passed,
the heron began noticing
small things
he had once overlooked.

How trout gathered
beneath the willow roots
after heavy rain.

How dragonflies
flew lower
before storms arrived.

How morning light
warmed one patch of water
before the rest of the river.

The heron grew familiar
with this corner of the river
in ways he never had
with all the rest.

Without traveling farther.

One autumn evening,
a flock of young swallows
swept low
across the water.

They disappeared south
toward the distant marshes.

The old heron
watched them go.

Then he turned back
toward the eastern reeds.

The willow branches
moved softly above
the darkening water.

A fish stirred near the roots.

The heron stepped once
through the shallows
and caught it without hurry.

Then he settled quietly
among the reeds again
while the river
moved gently around him.

And though his world
had grown smaller
over the years,
it no longer
felt small to him.