The Grey Heron

There's a grey heron that stalks the vacant block across the road from the shopping centre. Black crows gather in large, prophetic covens on the street lights,  the edges of car parks and around bins to collect scraps of  discarded fast food meals. Their presence in mythic law foretells of a coming death. And I wonder if  their presence around the dumpsters and bins foretells the future of this time and place.A flat, windswept suburb close to the sea that can drive you mad with its carefully planned, funnel like streets and housing.

The grey Heron takes careful steps through the brown grass of the vacant lot. Head angled like an indigenous dancer. Eyes blinking. The pie and chip wrappers that blow  like tumble weed across now asphalted and landscaped  shell middens, collecting along the fences and in the low growing salt bush, don't interest him or anyone else for that matter. The blurred faces passing in the constant stream of traffic that flows up and down Merton St, morning and night and all afternoon, intent on their pressurized existence don't notice the adaptation of bird life to their decaying culture.