Blue Heron of the Fountain Valley

He’s a pencil sketch implausibility of a bird, high-stepping it out from the rain-drenched rushes of the pond’s edge, his neck a skinny swoosh you could almost miss, making the parabolic drama of that bill the more startling still. He reacts to some invisible shift in the wind or stirring in the pond-scrabble round his magnified praying-mantis legs, and in remarkable silence, lifts off. Dusky azure wings like the twin

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