The shadow of death,
the grim reaper on rail-thin legs
looming over the lowly pond
like a feathered crane with cold eyes,
only no fish would willingly
let themselves be carried off
by the heron's yellow jib.
A grey ghost wading through the water
as if walking through walls.
The fish remain undisturbed,
gazing up from the green depths
seeing nothing but the reeds.
Then a blinding flash,
the grey shadow strikes,
takes off on silent wings.
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