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John Stone

They

They work the rice fields in shifts. Dawn brings darkened trees to life as the noble White Heron shake their heads, flex their wings, and prepare for the hunt. From the west come their brethren: the Night Heron, all gun metal grey and ominous in their fatigue.

They share the same branches; hotbeds of mating and sleep. They work the same paddies; wet fertile fields of survival. They exist in a harmony composed in black and white.

Sometimes when the shift is changing, the two flocks, composed of thousands, meet in mid air...clashing, blending, joining, separating... I can almost see them exchanging low fives as they pass.

Eternal circles
create grand illusion
world without end