The Heron, Flying

A heron flew low over the late afternoon lake right before my eyes today. I breathed in deep as I watched. 'How beautiful', and I put myself into him for a moment, seeing what he sees, feeling feathers float and quiver, slicing air with soft, weightless movements. Strong.
'Be grateful' I whispered to the heron. 'Don't take this for granted.' And then I realized that to him, soaring over crystal waters, it was nothing. Instinct. His place.
It was the observation I made of him. The observation coming from one bound by gravity, and weighty thoughts -- one who cannot fly. And then, I wondered : 'would the heron say the same to me?'
'Be grateful' he would whisper, 'Don't take this for granted.' Because he cannot roam the earth as I do. He cannot love like I do. He cannot create. He cannot make sense. And I'm not seeing his observation but my own -- that he can fly. That his life is for flying, for freedom. And that is something I only wish I could say was my purpose in life.

To be free and to fly.

But maybe it's more doable than I see. Figuratively, for I will never have wings. Not physical wings, no. But maybe of spirit or of heart.
Maybe I am meant to live free and to fly.

Either way, be grateful, I shall do my utmost to be. 'Never take this for granted' will be my aim, my whispered prayer. Life is open-ended. I have no answers, just doors -- opened, closed. I have decisions, hopes, fears, and the physical inability to fly...

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