Eating supper beside the marsh near Wellfleet, I said, “See that little tree? Wouldn’t it be a perfect place for a bird to land?” Michal looked over her left shoulder. “Perfect.” We ate and talked. A breeze came up. We watched the sun linger in the west.

When the bird swept in, I could not believe it. Nor could I say any words. But my face told. Michal turned to see the green heron’s feet take hold on two branches.

The heron stretched tall and looked around the marsh grass, its face beautiful and strange in the evening light. Then it leapt out into the wide world again—long, slender, fluid, swimming the air.