or, what happens when an egret spends too much time on Twitter
The river is polluted,
So muddy taste the trout.
The cricket chirp is muted.
The grubs are running out.
The heron eyes my minnow.
The beaver’s on the run.
There droops a dying willow
Wilting in the too-hot sun.
The winter comes too early.
The springtime comes too late.
You feel the crisis, surely;
The lurch of doomful fate.
The rocks have lost their luster.
What shall I do, you ask?
The courage I can muster
Isn’t equal to the task.
The eggshells have turned brittle.
The moon has ceased to phase.
Best efforts are too little,
For we face the end of days.
My candid circumspection
Puts off my addressee.
My waterborne reflection
Is my only company.
My post once was prestigious.
I was lauded and adored.
Now everything’s egretious.
I am lonely. And I’m bored.
(Words and photo by Sarah Hinlicky Wilson)