Open eyes and long legs. I feel like a heron. Stalking the pond with no real drive except to stalk. My stomach is full. I could eat more. But, why eat if I’m content? What do I do if I’m content? My claws press deep into the soft pond bed. Where should I go, if I’m happy? Is it enough to just stay here and stalk? With the glistening ripples of the surface opening visual melodies like wind chimes for the eyes. Enough compared to what? What am I comparing my enough to? If the goal of life is to be happy and I am, isn’t that enough? There’s plenty of other birds who get more fish than me. Who amble on clearer water. They’ve contorted their wishes into ones that favor the gloating. Their wishes are shaped into feeling accomplished when certain imagined values of accomplished are achieved. But, this kind of thinking is a carousel. One who achieves in a world of imagined goals is one that can never be content. My pond is murky. The fish aren’t plenty, but they are there. Frogs croak in aimless shots that always hits bullseye. And the night time moon is framed by thickets of cattails that make it look as though the pond was made for this picture. Because it was. Even though it never tried to be. I’ll fish when I’m hungry.