A grey heron looking very bored and cold. Beside it a spoonbill gathering what it could before the light disappeared from the day.
A frisky breeze bestowing on Little Grey, a feathery ruff so that the bird no longer looked bored but instead took on the aspect of an elderly person’s shrewd wisdom.
Meanwhile, the spoonbill seemed eager to continue to feed. Scooping, sweeping and shovelling the water with its food-detecting soup ladle bill.
Two species doing their thing together down on the rocks at the pointy end of the inlet, where the harbour’s salt water merges with water from a creek seeping into the inlet from under a culvert, under the road
as both this day and season together unwound
and I pressed on towards home.
11th Letter In 