Blue Heron

How is it possible

A blue heron

Rises from the reeds

Fringing the lake,

With noiseless feathers

Not quite brushing

The dusk gray water,

Trailing no ripple,

No fleck of white

On purple shadow,

No hint how

It skims past my eyes

As if through them,

More ghost than bird,

As hushed in flight

As thought,

My thought:

How could this have been?

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