358: Home Pond, early morning

Home Pond, a short mile from our house, is the source of drinking water for our town. The birds and bats drink there, too, and I like to sit at a picnic table and watch in the evening as they swoop and plink the water. There was a silent heron at the spillway when I last walked Mabel to the pond. On a walk I have to choose either my camera or my dog–neither is patient enough for the other–and this evening it was my dog. I wouldn’t have tried for the heron with my camera, anyway–with such a short lens as a 100mm, I would have had to point into the photo and say, “See, there’s a heron right there!”

So Mabel and I stood 70 feet away and watched the heron stand, watching the water in perfect patience. I knew if I took two or three steps toward her she would tip her head forward and hoist her heavy body by one solid thrust of her wings and curve away over the water, slowly gaining altitude in one long goodbye, and I would thrill to see her do exactly that, what I knew she would do, and I wanted to remember that curving slow lift away from me, as if it was about me, I wanted to remember it by seeing it again, and I stood still, my dog beside me, knowing what it would cost the heron in simple calories expended to give me that delight.