The Blue Heron

Canoes drifted across the placid water, breaking through reeds and lily pads on our family excursion, a retreat from community. We plunged our oars into the water, leaving swells and ripples of wake behind us. My mother, spotting a blue heron, pointed and shushed. Eight eyes turned to witness the bird, and the back oars of both boats turned the prows towards a log on which the ancient spirit sat statuesque. She stood with calm surety, watching carefully the four pale, upturned faces, her neck blue and bent with elegance. We sat in unified silence. The river itself merciful to the wonder that had stolen us, the heron obliging us with her aching delicacy. Then she allowed us a silent flight, low across the lake, passing with calculated, slow wingbeats and relinquishing to us a last rapture and longing for her.