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66 G R E AT B L U E When the great blue heron appears through the leaves of the trees lining the banks of the Farmington River, I think of all that is marginal in this life compared to those slow, powerful wings, rowing the air above the river’s heart. The plumed head looks to the left, then to the right, as it cranes to peer into the water of the river’s swift current, cresting its banks, flowing with the rush of the insistent June rain. And I think of you, and wish you had been beside me to see the great bird, that sacred vision, rowing the air, and searching the heart of the river. So, I think, is this why I am alive, that being with you is like stepping into the sunlight after days of rain, and to know that you are opening in ways you have never opened before? I think, as the great blue heron flies out of sight, that I row the air above 67 the river of your heart, neither of us being able to comprehend those powerful wings, unable to gauge that the vision of the epiphanal would be a reason anyone standing on the banks would want to break into song, and might even propel the heron further into following the strong current of you, surging past the low-hung tendriled leaves. ...

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