People of my age travel on cruise ships sipping hard liquor heading somewhere. Exciting strangers with tales to tell. They visit places they’re too old to explore. They have grand adventures. They bring back photographs and silly hats to prove it. I know this because the characters on my bookshelf told me. My sister tells a different story. I trust my bookshelf friends. I don’t travel.
Just this morning on the trip to my desk, I spied a Great Heron resting for a moment in a marshland. Somewhere. I stood quiet in the morning mist watching him open his wings to the new sun. Hoping he’d stay awhile.