Siege of the Spirit

The heron is a significant bird.

When I’m left alone, there’s nothing to distract me. No creativity. It’s all gone again.

Sometimes it seems to just be buried beneath the surface or scratching away at a wall.

I can’t see the herons. The boundaries are closing about the lake, the world of the fish. Soon they will have nowhere to go and the herons will eat them.

Maybe the water that covers my soul is going away too, and my soul will flop struggling to the surface, stranded on the shore. Gasping not in death, but in awakening from a pool of death. And swallowed in the rebirth of a heron. I hope.