As Heron appeared it was already leaving.
Maybe I am the one that scared it from its place
in among the river birch and undergrowth, the banks
this side of the river.
Maybe I can look at what I once wrote thinking you
—always thinking you— would read it.
I told a friend about this hollow feeling,
feeling like the residue left inside a lost wax mold.
Something about about fire, about wanting to be burned away.
Tom Driscoll Writing 