Old Window Glass

Dawson’s Creek was smooth and the ripples barely perceptible, like old window glass.  It was busy this particular afternoon with four small fishing boats quite near us, while Brandy and I sat on the dock to wait for the heron.  I could hear a couple of young boys, and what sounded like their mom near one of the houses on the creek-side of the road, fishing from a small dock.  They must have been deciding on a meal, because one of them said that they did not have to go to town; they could catch some fish.  A few minutes later, I heard a boy exclaim, “I caught one, I caught one!” and then squealed gleefully, “Go get the camera!”

The heron finally appeared, taking a detour from the creek and over the road, banking over the river, and circling back to the woods of the campground.  Time to go home.

Cindy B. Stevens
20 October 2000