Soaring Spirits
What was a heron doing in this dry place?
The sky was the blank sort of gray that signified nothing much going
on in the atmosphere. No rain, just a constant looming haze.
All was quiet, except for the rhythmic inhalations and exhalations of
distant traffic and occasional respectful chirps from birds who seemed
to know that cemetery grounds were no place for raucous jubilation.
Ripening oranges winked like tiny jack-o-lanterns from the green
lushness of the bordering orchard. The only other hint of fall color
was the tentative reddening of three maples grouped in a far corner,
as though ostracized from the palm trees, pines and weeping eucalyptus
that stood sentry over the vast expanse of grave markers. Allen,
Grainger, Jones. Beloved Mother. Baby.
Julia’s searching gaze drifted toward the maples. A tall, gray-blue
bird ambled among the monuments. It thrust its slender head forward
and walked purposefully on silent, stick legs, as though beckoning her
to come and look at something even more interesting than itself.
