Beware the road least traveled, for
it ambles over hills and plains,
avoiding mainstream's common traps,
while risking transcendental pains.
A tightrope sans a safety net,
the road to triumph and romance,
winds on without regard, as if
its feats are made by happenstance.
Most efficacious lives parade
intrepid hearts and daring souls,
but media is loath to make
reports on unsuccessful goals.
Beware, the road least traveled may
escort prosperity away.
I left on a whim.
Where will this country road lead?
Not that it matters...
Will the next hamlet I find
embrace or turn me away?
I strolled away from city noise,
away from strain and crowds,
Superior grants strength and calm,
despite her nimbus clouds.
At lake's edge I can sit and stare
horizon's curved and lonely cusp
live those who share my bond.
For I could sense those roustabouts
who stroll to water's edge
and gaze at distant shores where I
now sit near leafy sedge.
They, too, would need their time away
from work and all they feared,
I wondered if daydreams of me
came calling while they peered.
I sighed and left the peaceful scene,
recharged and ready, though
I still recalled the unseen shore
and those I yearned to know.
The heron flies with neck retracted, short,
Unlike its friend, the long-necked, graceful swan,
and though they're known by egret, also sport
the moniker of bittern, now foregone.
No easy life, these water fowl dwell on,
with fish entrapped when fortunate to dine.
They nest, find marshy ground to build upon
or teeter on a branch with keen design.
The "lady of the waters" in decline
as wetlands shrink from man's intruding use,
the heron is oblivious to signs
of human disregard and land abuse.
They stalk their prey and stab with sharpened beak
while unaware of avian mystique.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.