Apophenia

The croaking herons raised my eye,

And I thought, as I always do,

How like pterodactyls they are,

Or at least how I envision pterodactyls

To have been, triangular wings

Dragging against the sky to cut a

Path through soupy summer air,

Legs dangling behind like an aerial

Afterthought, eyes attuned to every

Telltale ripple that might mask the

Evening’s meal—the lilt of imagination

Pronouncing a rhyme across the ages.

6/27/2024 - 7/6/2024