Margin

The sun will rise like a golden fish over the far bank, but for now a cobwebbed sky clings to the curling water. This is the margin where dawn issues through nights last gleam in ghostly drifts. The dewy daylight arrives a veiled lace flecked with gold. Reeds rustle, stir a dark mud into green ripples. Dragonflies climb stems to dry damp wings. A standing heron appears, its eyes are star-bright. Mallards and Coots, pluck mist from their plumage. The day floods up to paint itself beneath high flying feathers the hunter waits, gun at the ready, but he will miss, for the margin has hidden his aim and it always will in such magic moments.