A friend and I were at breakfast at the Malibu Kitchen, Sunday papers, warm muffins, warm sunshine. Quiet at 8 a.m. (the dogs woke up early) when suddenly, a loud, angry squawk. Then another and another and, after a suspenseful silence, what can only be described as, well, clucking. Clucking?
We looked up into the tree, saw a flash of white feathers. My friend looked puzzled.
"Chickens," he asked?
"Egrets," I said. "So graceful and elegant and ..."