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From the Bench with Grey Heron Fisher
There she was, as so often in the twilight poised on her favorite rock resting in the shallow bay just 50 paces from me.
Grey Heron standing still. She raises her pointed head; legs stretch out; neck unfolds halfway. Serious eyes slop downward. The bay before her sparkles in the disappearing light. Not a ripple. She stands straight up now. Slender legs straightened taunt. Stretching her neck toward the water, her beak an arm’s length from where the fish must be in knee-deep clear water.
Leap. She caught it off guard. Springs onto the rock with fishtail inside her beak. Prey flapping, she shakes her head and hops a couple paces onto the sandy beach. She shakes again. The fish sliding into her body, she strides back to her hunting rock.
Head raised to sea level as darkness casts its cover. Appetite satisfied, Ms. Heron spreads mighty wings uplifting her gently out of sight. Elegant delight.
In awe. I wonder if the hare pair watch from their rosehip bush hollow home where another of nature’s wonders had unfolded some years ago. Then, a fox family lodged in that hollow just 100 paces from a wooden house where I live built by a fisher a century ago.
No warring humans penetrate peaceful joy enveloping me this night.
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