"Sitting on a bench after a walk around the Lake,
We watch the lake breathe—small ripples,
Light gliding over the surface like something remembering how to move.
And there—the elegant heron, still as driftwood, a shadow with feathers,
Patient beyond understanding. then, a shift, a ripple not from water—
But from wings. wide, slow, deliberate—as if time had loosened its grip
Just to watch, the air parts—no rush, no need—just the clean lift
Of something ancient reaching for sky, we don’t speak.
The lake doesn’t either. We just hold the moment—like you do
When something beautiful refuses to stay."
Postscript: I took these photos at Rinconada Lake following an after dinner walk with Cecile
