Blue Gray
The day was cold. Too cold for early December. Her shoulders tensed in the air, and she hated that bulky jacket—the way it took over and became her. She looked up at the trees, completely bare now. The sky shone through their gray branches, a deeper shade of the same color. Even the asphalt matched the sky. She smiled to herself. “I am walking through a black and white photograph—even my hair and coat are gray. My corduroys are gray. It is truly a gray day.” And then she heard the wings before she saw them—almost like breath on the sky. From the sound of it, she knew the bird was large. So she expected a crow, or by some wonderful chance—a red tailed hawk. But there, against the overcast sky, a blue heron appeared—almost dinosaur-like in the cold December light. The heron moved in slow motion flight. She saw its yellow eyes, its fish-shaped throat, close enough to touch, but not really. Its colors blended right into the day, and she was happier than she began, not near as cold and maybe even ready for winter. As if anyone is ever truly ready for that.
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