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by Dewell H. Byrd
Old moon rubs cue dust blue on the church steeple, lays a shimmering beam across the flight of a night heron: silent hunter. Patient fishing bird poised in mid-stride stares unblinking into a minnowÕs eye, waits, ignores the sound of trucks in caravan that rip the night like glaciers calving, across the belly of the bay. Blue moon on black beak, ivory streaks of wear. Fish frozen in terror. Late snack by moonlight.
Old moon rubs cue dust blue on the church steeple, lays a shimmering beam across the flight of a night heron: silent hunter.
Patient fishing bird poised in mid-stride stares unblinking into a minnowÕs eye, waits, ignores
the sound of trucks in caravan that rip the night like glaciers calving, across the belly of the bay.
Blue moon on black beak, ivory streaks of wear. Fish frozen in terror. Late snack by moonlight.
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