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Dawn of a lesser light
by James Dalton Byrd

Low-flying geese send their cries skipping across the night.
Flat stones of sound fading,
then sinking, into the lake.
A heron waits near the shore
and I watch it hold its ancient duty.
We wait for the first glimmer
beyond the mountains…
the heron to better see silver flashes
slipping through the shallows,
and I to wonder
at the light of our pale sister.
The heron’s voice croaks out an echo
from its saurian past
telling me the history of its tribe.
And I gather dim memories from colder ages.
Old memories hiding within me.
Memories of herons and men
ever waiting
for the rising of the moon.


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