Sanguine

I sat in the parked car at Gooseneck Cove,
gazing at the Blue Heron.

In the distance, Cypress branches 
rose through the fog's hold. 

All my grandfather's life,
he'd told the same stories. 

Once, he'd shined a man's shoes 
for tips in a dimly lit bar. 

Later that evening, he found shelter
beneath a Bigleaf Linden.

Years after the war, he'd say.
My Biana!

Do you have any spare change
to help a veteran?

I'd smile, as children do,
holding his hand. 

Tears come in the strangest places.
I hear a man shout.

Next time! When I look up, 
the Blue Heron is gone.

The saltwater still.