A great egret came to the edge of my pond again yesterday. When I saw him the first time about a week ago I thought he was a blue heron, but since I only caught a glimpse of him before he flew off, his pale coloring could have been a trick of the light reflecting off the water. But yesterday I could see plainly that he was white. I walked outside for a closer look, moving quietly around the house and down the stairs toward the pond. Charlie and Sugar followed me out before I could close the back door, but thankfully they stopped on the grass and waited, both dog and cat sensing my need for reticence. I stepped up onto the stone wall overlooking the back yard, keeping my hands hidden in my pockets. The statuesque bird watched me carefully for several slow breaths, and then he moved delicately along the water’s edge, his feet disappearing into the mud and his long black legs bending elegantly, like a dancer’s.
“Hello,” I whispered softly. His neck grew a few inches taller at the sound of my voice, and I stretched up in similar reaction. This white creature looked like a painter’s muse, beautiful and regal, the plumes on his back fluttering in gossamer fineness. Those exquisite feathers were the reason egrets were hunted almost to extinction in the late 1800s, for the millinery trade, to decorate women’s hats.
After a moment the bird continued his graceful circuit of the water’s edge, still watchful of my presence, but periodically stabbing his beak into the mud in search of food. I was mesmerized by the scene, captured in a spell of tranquility. Herons symbolize stillness, and I was grateful for the reminder, to see possibility in these strange days of confinement. Just then Charlie moved forward slightly, startling the great egret. He rose majestically into the air above our heads, his wingspan fanning out beyond my own capacity, and in long rhythmic strokes, flew away.
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