bones is kneeling, kneeling down by the reeds in the marsh where the water is coated with scum and bubbles, is dipping his index finger and re-arranging swirls while a frog slides to safety. he is thinking about the bubbles and the film of the scum, is thinking maybe, maybe, there is somewhere else to go

cattails are growing green and dark from the scum from the rich mud at the bottom; his feet are squeezing rich earth mud between toes and he is thinking of the empty morning, of the stranger world. a leaf drops, a leaf drops and sirens behind high-rises wail

a heron comes from the left, a long grey heron from the reeds is fishing; bones is watching the heron fish and the fish it catches, is watching the long heron glide. the heron thinks about him the heron stretches out its neck it is time to become

heron can feel his heron-feet sliding into the heron-mud he can feel his heron-wings embracing the heron-air he is thinking my fingers and my feet and the heron-heart drops—a scum film, a heron-boy to the west—and leaf-drop bubbles swirl, heron-wise