When they’d crossed the low bridge over the salt marsh, the remaining traces of dawn fog drifted between the reeds and out over the marsh’s main channel. It filtered the gathering light and nearly obscured the doe crossing a tidal creek, knee-deep in brackish mud.
“Great blue heron!” Wren gasped. “Can you pull up for a second?”
As Wren readied her camera, the bird stood motionless on sticklike legs. There was a perfect upside-down reflection of the bird in the still water below. When her shutter clicked, a red-winged blackbird took flight. Silas watched as it deftly landed—somehow—on a vertical reed stem a short distance away.
The marsh was misty, quiet. It was so still that Silas couldn’t help but sense a certain intimacy about the setting, the moment—as if he and Wren were the only people who existed in the world and were sharing something secret and special. Contentment welled up in him with such a rush, he was momentarily overwhelmed with emotion.
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