| Probability | Text |
|---|
| 76% | Sometimes the edge of the world is quite empty, except for the blue heron picking her way sure-footed, one long leg after another, at low tide inspecting the eelgrass. She is my secret, and my heart steps high and lightly with her. Sometimes the edge of the world is allied with children, the tide pools untidy with little boats, stone circles, the beach a whole noisy continent of castles. Sometimes the sun gets to going down there, out in the bay, the blue heron is sleeping, and the beach slides out from under us in molten gold and amber and burnished brass, and tips us over into darkness. | ▶️ |
