People came and shunted gear, maneuvering around us.  We did not move. 

The two of us were cradled by this bird, taken in as if it were a magician.  You see these herons on the river daily, sweeping from the riverbank, swerving among the dazzling white egrets.  You see them wait until the last moment before they fly and screech, as if doubting you have the effrontery to come this near.  But never a view like this.  Not straight up, not right into its eyes.  You want to ask questions now, now that the heron is so close.  But you can’t.  You can’t get a word out.  You just stare for as long as you can because suddenly it will be over, you will get your name back and life will begin again.

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By Craig Childs