Chance Encounter

The trio of little blues waded in the morning fog,

their bodies  a stark contrast to the dark of the mud flats.

All around, heavy mist rose in wavering bands

that filtered through the red fingers of the sumac. What chance

that I’d be here at this precise moment. That I’d coast

on my bike toward the head of the tide, round the curve

and hear the still-rushing water of the stream

bordered now by purple asters. That I’d catch

 a glimpse of their elegant bodies, so still as I approached,

then graceful in movement as they combed the tidal pools.

I stood in silence. A runner passed. My camera caught

the mirror of herons against rippling water.

Something to take with me.

To prove my good fortune.

Reluctantly, I hoisted a leg over my bike

and pedaled homeward.