I stand, quiet as a conspirator,

where the creek empties

its brackwater into the river,

watching three spoonbills

feed in the shallows.

They sweep their beaks sideways,

sifting for food while nearby

a white heron stands motionless,

a lonely sentry surveilling

the horizon for predators.

Just west of us on

Crying Child Island, an eagle

takes flight from the top

of an oak tree, coming fast

to harry us. The heron calls out

a warning. Startled by

the eagle’s speed, I cry out too.

The heron and the spoonbills flee

into the scrub on the far bank

as the raptor’s black shadow

darkens the water, frightening

the minnows. For this one hour,

the eagle will go hungry.

I need to know

who appointed the heron

as this fierce protector? He is

a solitary hunter – he forages

alone, and no one watches over

him. Like the stubborn fool

I am, I want to stay here,

to claim him as my own,

to be his guardian.

Author Name with bio and links.