What Does the Heron Know?
What does the heron know?
I think about this every time I see one, which, I’m happy to say is quite often these days. When the pandemic set in and the gym shuttered, I started exercising outdoors. Two of the walking trails I frequent meander around and through waterways. Though I’ve grown accustomed to rounding a bend and catching site of a heron standing quietly in the water or casually skulking close to the shoreline, it still feels like a startling gift every time.
Great blue herons are the most common type found in New England. There’s fossil evidence to suggest that these birds have been around since the Miocene epoch. One glance at their long, elegant necks, beady reptilian eyes, and lethal, needle-like bills and even the most passionate science deniers could be convinced that these are totally dinosaur ancestors haunting our ecologically treasonous asses. When they unfold their impressive 6-foot wingspan to take off, you can almost hear the eerie strains of John William’s theme from Jurassic Park playing beneath them.
Covered in soft plumage of white, grey, and a shade of dusty blue like a weathered car seat in a ’57 Chevy, these birds are a watercolorist’s dream. They are regal and stately and, more than anything else, unbearably cool.
Not bald eagle fighting off a bear cool or hawk stealing a chicken while fighting a bald eagle being chased by a bear cool. That’s Chuck Norris animal kingdom nonsense. I mean the cool that comes with self-possession, with being at home in your skin; it’s a way of moving through the world that telegraphs your center of gravity is immovable. This is big heron energy.
Most times I’ll spot a heron standing in the water or sometimes perched on a little shelf of driftwood. She looks zoned out the way a lot of us used to be before we swapped staring for scrolling. In reality, she’s completely present. She’s scanning for prey, perfectly content to wait for fish to come withing striking range. Herons are patience personified. Their quiet assurance is unnerving, intimidating; they carry it with them as they walk, each foot placed with the confidence of a beauty pageant contestant. In 23 million years I could never achieve that level of gravitas, couldn’t touch that degree of cool.
Instead, I’m resigned to watch and study, to audit this master class on things I’ll never know.
