She wiped her slightly soiled hands on her canvas apron. Bree had been working since she was woken up by the early morning clamoring calls and thrills of the white herons and dark anhingas. She found the noises they made to be eerie, more cacophony than actual song. Bree stood still, looking to the backyard and the land that stretched beyond the property line of the nineteenth century bungalow she had lived in for the last five years. She called it a backyard, but it was much more than that. Eight acres of lush palmetto, cypress, pine and the occasional live oak, until it met up with the serpentine blackwater river.