Against the implacable rush of water, the blue heron stands tall, feet firmly planted on the stream-bed, head held still and high. Statuesque – and it is indeed like a sculpture as it stands there unmoving – it commands this section of the stream, holding court like the royal bird it is.
It is an inspiration, waiting so patiently and quietly, so still and stoic amid the madness of the water swirling about its legs. Is it resting or watching for a meal? The blue heron keeps its secrets as close as its feathers, hidden by the elegance of its long neck and beak – grace and beauty their own deceptive shields.
The only secret I want to discover is how it manages to stay so calm and still in such cold and disruptive water. Every time I think I’m approaching that stillness, something knocks me off the peaceful perch. I am too quickly swayed by the rush of the world, too easily knocked down by the maelstroms of all that swirls by in a single, and not even very tumultuous, day. Blue heron, tell me that secret and you can keep all the others.
