The heron flew overhead as dusk drew in like a giant, leathered bat, pterodactyl or stretched-necked vampire. Silent in flight, it lurched into the treetops with the ungainly elegance of a drunk ballerina. Once settled, the darkness drawing in, it blended into the night like a collection of twigs. Nestled in the trees between the park and the townhouses, you might never have known it there.
“Wow,” I said to the wife. “You don’t see that every day.”
“No,” she replied. “Those boots did nothing for her.”