No matter the hour of night or day, she's there--always at one shaded bank of the pond or the other. Always alone. Once, it almost frightened me-- she was in the center, not a ripple on the lake, not her mate, nor another wading bird in sight-- so regal and pure, and unharmed, so unafraid, it seemed, of solitude, so sure. Imagine, desire gone, no longer essential. Not touch, perhaps one luxury-- memory--to sustain her.