Driftwood herons stalk the dry Quabbin,
spearing memories of forgotten fish.
O, reptilian rebuke to relentless progress,
they stand stalking still in petrified patience.
These ancient relics, Teradactyl's cousins,
now slow flap their bulks
to gloomy treetops.
The fish will dance and die tomorrow.
In murky light halo perhaps a glimpse,
a refracted flash of tai chi movement,
of sticks and herons upon the water.