Arching his neck more sharply
and pointing his beak more inwardly,
the heron plunged the dagger point into his breast.
The blood spurted out,
pouring down crimson over his speckled feathers.
I stood frozen in shock and fascination.
Three times with quivering neck
he drove the knife-point home,
his beak shining with blood, his legs trembling.

As I moved closer by a few tentative steps
he went over on his side,
his legs folding in, his neck going limp,
his wings twitching open as the splash came up.
He just floated there on the surface of the lake,
rocking slightly, a limp and lifeless thing.

With brimming heart and eyes, I moved gently closer,
and squatted down into the water
disturbing the red cloud of his blood.
My hands went tenderly under him
when suddenly he rose up like a fountain coming on,
his head and long neck erect, his wings
exploding open with a cascading rush of water.

My heart leapt with fear and love
as this majestic bird arose into the air,