We're walking along the bluffs, the dogs and I, in a meditative state, which for the dogs means ball!coyotepoop!ball!deadgopher! I, meanwhile, have taken leave of my senses entirely because I get a glimpse of this tall creature standing in the brush and my mind goes, huh, a baby giraffe. (I know, right?)

It's a heron, of course, just standing there, and then suddenly flying, passing right by us, the wing beats a tenor thud you feel more than you hear, and it's all so graceful and unexpected it takes the dogs a full ten seconds to patrol the area and see whether heron poop makes the Top Ten list.