Excerpt from Wren’s Journal
I saw a heron waiting on a rock in the middle of the lily pond today.
It was so still I thought it a statue. Until it struck out to grasp its prey in its thin beak.
I came home and pondered aloud to Heron about what control the creature must have had to wait until the precise moment it could accomplish its mission.
He chuckled then told me he should observe his namesake more, because he did not have such patience, and that our father named him after the bird for its mastery of stealth, of which he was also lacking.
I disagreed, of course. He is rather fond of poking fun at himself, in spite of being the finest man I know. After I made my disagreement known, he told me I was true to my namesake as a bringer of hope and a symbol of warm weather to come.
I am uncertain, though, that he is correct.
Perhaps I possessed warmth as a young child, but now all I feel is cold and barren.
Sapped of all that was good, devoid of anything of worth.
Heron would not like such thoughts, so I don’t give them a voice.
I cannot bear to feel his responding pain.
The constant guilt he carries is heavy enough.