It’s a cold winter day,
tempered by a shining sun, standing in the sky,
that is blue, clear and clean, how it shows seldom in this time.
The eye sweeps the forage fields, that is sallow and dry
becouse of the frost and the drought, and
the wheat field, that is a profound, pleasant green as a emerald,
more high than usual.
So there when unexpectedly one can see to fly about the white wings.
It’s the white heron, that alights on the dry field, flitting gracefully:
it look for the food scrabbling into the earth and inserts it into the long neck.
Slowly it bobs up the earth without missing the elegance.
It stands up and flights newly, perhaps it has heard my heartbeat, and
it loses itself in the sky and looms.
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