The Branch Where the Blue Heron Sleeps

Along the bank of a lake on the north side facing the south, trees in a particular spot shine white in sun.

My eyes scan spindly trunks to the very top, where four large masses of branches cling. Clearly not branches from these trees, these are nests. Nests of the Great Blue Heron. It seems improbable that so large a bird nests so very high.

Bushes and ground below are slathered with droppings.

It’s late summer so the nests sway vacant in the breeze, waiting for January and the return of mated couples.

My boat glides gently, so far under the nests that I lean back in my seat, painfully craning my neck to get a closer look at these impossible constructions.

Meanwhile, across the lake, in cooler early morning shadows, an adult heron stalks.

I see him there, his patient wary eyes keening for something tasty.

So still, he tests my patience, forcing me to wait for his reward. Still like something stuffed and dead, he might fool me, but he doesn’t.

I know he knows I’m here. He doesn’t care. He stares not at me but into shallow water. Respecting him, I float silently hoping a breeze neither pushes me too close nor too far.

He strikes with a quick snap of long beak, not a weapon as spear.

I feel as victorious as he must feel, a writhing, plump crawdad clasped, the only red in a landscape of lake. Claws madly clawing the air, he releases in a snap to move the angry creature closer to his lengthy throat. Again he snaps. Claws still madly waving, it disappears down a throat.

That’s a very long neck, I think to myself. I wonder what he feels as the crawdad descends. How long does it take for a crawdad to die? Does the heron ever think that the discomfort of pointy appendages isn’t worth the pain? Does he ever cough one up like a cat does a furball? With an audible gag?

This heron doesn’t give up, and soon resumes his stealthy stride.

Here’s how he moves. One dainty foot at a time, lifted slowly, quietly from the water, placed precisely so, lifted, placed, long neck stretched out or up, his body is both gawky gate and graceful. He makes no sound. I make no sound. He stops, peers one way then another, freezes, cocks his head, moves, freezes.

When will something happen? He’s more patient than I; he has more to gain than one great photo.

The breeze picks up as it does every summer morning about 10. My boat is pushed too close and without warning, vast wings spread with a slight crouch, and off he goes, long beak leading, neck in the curve of an “s,” thin legs trailing uselessly, wings spread beyond six feet.

He soars.