Under a hazy Florida sun, in the median, three tall birds stand- underestimating. The closest takes flight arcing in earnest, and I murmur; "Oh, I know you didn't just..." I close one eye and hunker expecting a sudden and bleeding passenger. No crash. No bloody body flapping. Pinned by the seventy mile per hour wind the avian beckons with a thump against the right mirror bracket. I turn my head and I look into the Egret's small grey eye as its' head bobs gently to the rhythm of the road. Carte de visite. I click the four ways on and slow and ease to the shoulder. The more I slow, the further the bird slides. I watch as the Heron angel reaches the soft and sandy shoulder without a bounce.