Driving down the highway, we pass hills and trees. I keep my eyes open for cows; and then I see Coots, those black bundles that get a running start on the water before they take off; and I see one lone bird perched high in the branches, small and hidden away, but seeing everything.
And on this past Saturday, the clouds formed a parachute, wrapping the sky in a weave pattern that made me want to climb on up and see the land from up above.
Highway turned to narrow country roads and the image that has stayed with me is of one white Heron standing in the grassland with a fence between him and another white Heron on the other side of the fence. They were looking at each other from at least 15 feet apart–looking as though they had found themselves in a mirror, looking carefully and cautiously into each other's eyes from that distance. It was a sight that like a pebble thrown into a still lake has rippled throughout my being.