There is the slow hum of cars along U.S. 1
but none close and no competition for the two sounds I do hear.
One is the sporadic drip of water from the big Magnolia in the back.
The fog that rolled across the island in the night
soaked the trees with a tissue thin vapor blanket.
In some places, like broad Magnolia leaves, it collects and runs off,
splashing on the ones below as it zips to the ground.
The other is a Great Blue Heron.
It squawks as it flies, slow, deep, “ran-nn-nk”
about every four or five seconds as he flies.
So the first one is out over the river,
the second closer,
by the third he’s over the marsh,
I hear the fourth nearly overhead,
the fifth one comes from over the oak hammock,
and by the sixth,
he is as faint
as he was at
the first.
There is all the promise to a fine day.