The island is veiled in fog today. In the morning a young heron, the colour of fog, stood on the back wall. Maybe he was looking around for fish.
He flew off across the orchard to settle briefly in an apple tree. His vast wingspan made a poor fit with its dense branches and homely leaves. He seemed incongruous there among robins' nests, like some ancient pagan god visiting a simple peasant's hut.
Then he flew south, across the lower orchard, toward the cove. The shore is the usual feeding place of the heron, not our back yard. His visit was a reminder of how closely the familiar and the wild dwell together here. It's something I forget. Then a glimpse of that strange otherness and grace illuminates everything, and I remember again for a little while.