It had rained hard the night before – not what Southerners call a “toad strangler”, but hard enough to down the flowers, hard enough to leave standing puddles and revive our thirsty brook. The storm broke the humid heat that had made the last few days a misery, when any physical action seemed wrapped in a moist blanket. The rain itself seemed a gift from the gods, but morning brought another.
Walking down for an early swim, a little after five, I saw a great blue heron rise from the reeds, lift slowly skyward, circle the pond, and wing majestically through the trees out of sight. Native Americans associated herons with wisdom and judgment; in Greek mythology they were often messengers from the Gods. For years I’ve counted lucky days that begin with sighting one.
Guidebook descriptions make blue herons seem like a witch in a child’s fairy tale: cloaked in grey; an oversized egg-shaped body supporting broad wings spanning almost six feet; perched on long legs with an elongated skinny neck and a thin dark plume, like a cowlick, accentuating a lengthy pointed beak. To see them, however, is to understand how a whole may be significantly more than the sum of its parts.
I love these birds. Quiet stalkers at the water’s edge, they wait with dignified patience before spearing the errant frog or fish with what from a distance seems a rapid, old-fashioned courtly bow. When they’re disturbed, they leave – not in a rush, but with careful, almost regal, deliberation.
Taking wing isn’t easy – it’s the one thing they do that lacks grace. They seem to lift with enormous effort, broad wings struggling to gather and bear their large bodies aloft in slow, rhythmic beats that you can hear in the quiet of early morning. They need a long runway and even then they often bank and fly back along their path to get the lift they require. But once launched they assume new elegance.
From the tall, thin watchers of the pond-side, they become arrows in flight: all beak and feet; neck coiled, body tucked up compactly out of the way. They’re unmistakable – no other creature looks like that. And they’re always alone.
Many Vermonters I know feel a kinship with such solitary creatures. They too work alone; they too prefer the quiet calm of lonely places; they too like waiting patiently at the edge of things. They too find transitions difficult, awkward, requiring great effort to complete. And they too seek to go about their daily work in a series of unhurried acts that unite to achieve dignity and grace, even if there’s no one watching.
