Heron and trout, the air we breathe

Now the deer come down to drink and browse in the catclaw acacia. Desert holly glistens by the swollen December river.

Suddenly a blue heron busts out of a winter thicket, flies big-winged by us in the rain. His blue body is dark against the bleached sycamore trunks.

I look into the yellow current and see the little trout that imitate the shadow movement of the great bird, now gone.

The wind wrinkles the pool, I watch, perfectly calm as they perform the impossible - breathe in the waterair the deer and I must drink.

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