I can’t think of my cousin without seeing the Chinese Pond Heron. Its yellow bill tipped in black. During mating season gray feathers flecked with white turn red. Low-lying, he wades in brackish water, spears a glossy frog. Cracks him in half before swallowing. One leg tucked under his body, he holds position. Behind a break of water palms, silt seeping through the hole in his boot, my cousin holds position too. Waiting for another boy probably his age, fresh from school, handed a Chicom56 rifle without his asking. They’re two seventeen-year-olds, dropped in a skewed world, chins still fuzzy. Eyes too young to detect hate. When my cousin finally spots him, my cousin begins to shiver, nearly loses his grip. The other boy never notices. Caught by the heron taking flight.
4 thoughts on “The Pond Heron – by Chella Coutington”
Beautiful! If I could hear this read aloud, I’d listen with eyes closed.
Awesome! I agree Carla! It’s a word painting for the ears
Beautiful, poignant, understated, with the critical moment cleverly implied but not expressed. This is a terrific story.
I agree—a nice comparison and image, and a poignant, relatable memory.
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