Sometimes my imagination gets a little…
Carried away.
Actually, that’s not quite accurate.
Sometimes it gets into a car, locks the doors, floors the accelerator, and leaves town without me.
I can’t help it.
I see things.
Not those kinds of things.
At least I don’t think so.
I see faces in reflections.
Animals in clouds.
Creatures emerging from geysers.
And occasionally, something staring back at me from a lump of rising bread dough.
Trish sees dinner.
I see Winston Churchill.
It’s like trying to control what you dream about.
You can go to sleep thinking peaceful thoughts about puppies and sunsets, and five minutes later you’re riding a giraffe through Home Depot wearing nothing but swim fins.
The imagination does what it wants.
Which brings me to these three Great Egrets.
They were simply fishing together in the shallows—three elegant white birds concentrating on breakfast.
That’s what a normal person would see.
Beautiful birds.
Graceful poses.
A peaceful morning on the water.
Not me.
I took one look through the viewfinder and immediately heard the theme from Charlie’s Angels.
There they were.
Three glamorous operatives.
Back-to-back.
Necks extended.
Beaks drawn.
Each one covering a different direction.
Ready to defend the Narrow River from minnows, mummichogs, and suspicious-looking crabs.
The egret in front was clearly the leader.
Confident.
Composed.
Walking directly toward danger—or possibly a silverside.
The one in the middle had the high ground covered.
And the third was watching their flank, presumably waiting for instructions from Charlie over a tiny waterproof speaker hidden beneath her feathers.
“Good morning, Angels.”
“Good morning, Charlie.”
“Your assignment today is to locate breakfast, neutralize it, and swallow it whole.”
Mission accepted.
Of course, none of this was actually happening.
They were just three Great Egrets fishing.
Probably.
But once my imagination sees something, there is no going back.
The birds become secret agents.
The clouds become elephants.
The geysers become ghosts.
And the bread dough becomes a former British prime minister.
That’s what you’re dealing with, folks.
Consider yourselves warned.
And if you ever look at one of my photographs and wonder, How on Earth did George see that?
Trust me.
I wonder the same thing.
Carry on.
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