By Dave Coulter
When we crossed the stone bridge in the woods a Green heron flushed out of the muddy creek below. It flew away and settled at a safe distance on a tree branch not yet hidden by leaves. He held on long enough, still enough, for us to study him in the late April sun. The heron seemed to sport all colors but green: streaks, chestnut breast, even yellow pinstripes, aglow. Clear round eyes surveyed us from under a dull green cap. Hunkered down, heron-hunched, he gripped his branch with brilliant orange feet. Soon he sailed off, with his breeding-bright feet trailing behind like a tangerine shooting star, fading deeper into grey tans of trees and tangle. Again we crossed the stone bridge and wandered on, and wondered on, who named the Green heron green.
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