VANISHING NIGHT HERONS 



convinced that you are about to approach 

 too near. Then, with a little frightened 

 croak, that is more like a squeak, as if his 

 hinges were rusty, he springs into the air, 

 flutters along shore a few rods and dis- 

 appears into the woods again. 



The thought of this little fellow always 

 brings to my mind the silent drowse and 

 quivering heat of August afternoons along 

 a drought-dwindled brook where cardinal 

 flowers lift crimson plumes on the margin 

 of the still remaining pools. Here where 

 deciduous trees shade the winding reaches 

 he loves to sit and wait for the cool of 

 evening before dropping to the margin 

 and hunting his supper. 



I always suspect him of being asleep 

 there with his glossy black head thrust 

 under his green wing. That would give 

 him an excuse for being surprised at close 

 quarters and account for his vast alarm 

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