Sonnet Four

Hiding behind a weeping willow,
her graceful locks of yellow-green,
at the edge of Langton Lake,
I stand statuesque, still as Little
Running Horse spying a sprinting
squirrel.  Through my binoculars
I observe a silent pair of egrets'
slow ballet in nuptial plumage.
My plan in motion is to sonnet
this pair until in fall they fly away.
Now standing in the water's edge
they are expert fisher-birds, spearing
unsuspecting fish with their yellow
beaks and swallowing them whole.