sonora2sonoma

While taking my meal by the water
A lone kayaker paddles by, his paddles dipping lazily
A fisherman casts his rod from a point off in the distance
The birds, one by one, slip along the water
headed home to nestle in for a long cold night.

The world is setting in also
after another day of unsettling and disturbing news.
Today it was a bombing in Africa
One week after the Paris attack.
Where, or what, will it be
tomorrow
or next week?

We here in the West
have been accustomed to relative security
for so long that
(It never even used to be a concept in the public mind)
we have come to expect
we will be safe–
that our loved ones
will return safely each night
to their homes,
while those in other, less secure, places
geographically, and otherwise,
harbor no such expectations,
rely on no such guarantees,
cling to no such hope.

A blue heron
glides silently
immediately beneath my perch
followed by more kayakers
all coming home to roost,
each graceful, silent, beautiful
in their own way
as they pulse through their respective media
and each having a home to return to
unlike those unfortunates
fleeing oppression
in far-flung places.

Two egrets glide by
one skimming the water
the other, soaring, gliding, dipping
keeping apace . . .
choreography
made habit by practice.

The pair join a group
as if arriving by chance
for a prearranged meeting.

I pick at my food
it being a distraction from the parade of waterfowl
passing by my view
barely cognizant of the descending chill
the sun having dropped below the horizon.

I am reminded that
the fact I have food to eat
is a privilege denied to many.

It is a cruel irony that
the largesse
we in the West take for granted
is atypical for so many
while those who are denied it
pine for, and place value thereby
in the principles and values
which we regard so carelessly.

The Roman Empire, they say,
was defeated not by the armies of its enemies
but by apathy.

When the lessons of history
have not been heeded for a sufficient number of generations
the herons and egrets will still come home to roost each night
but the kayakers . . . ?

20 November 2015
Tim Konrad