White Herons

Three white herons winged silently over the sodden landscape. The rain had abated not 5 minutes ago, and a curious silence graced the land. Little remained to show that this had been a grassland a few weeks previously. A few soggy islands were all that attested to what used to be called hill country. Now, it didn’t seem like it would be called anything at all.

The birds seemed to be reveling  the return to the air after being grounded for weeks. The stretch of their wings, the lift of the breeze spoke volumes. Their strident calls carried beautifully across this new body of water, and they raced their reflections from one drowned hill to the next. Far in the distance, a huddled family stood upon their former hillock next to the roofless remains of their house, and watched in bewilderment as the birds enjoyed this new landscape.


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