Patience Of The Blue Heron

During a recent early evening walk around the lake at Furman, I spied a stealthy hunter standing in the stream coursing through the Japanese garden. Tall, thin, and regally plumed, the great blue heron stood motionless at the water's edge, like a slate-colored lamppost. The object of its rapt attention was a bass fingerling whose splashing fins tantalized the stilt-legged and long-necked pursuer.

The heron was staring so intently at his unwitting prey that it ignored my own rapt surveillance. I, too, stood perfectly still-as perfectly as I could-not ten feet away from the life-and-death drama unfolding before my eyes. I felt privileged to witness the scene. I had seen this resident heron several times before, but it had always taken flight upon my approach. This time it seemed to invite me to linger.

Silhouetted against the dusky sky, the hollow-boned heron struck a royal pose. This was no bread-begging mallard but a sovereign sentinel engaged in a timeless survival ritual. Fierce necessity prompted his foraging for an evening meal, but he seemed in no rush to make it happen. The unhurried hunter stood outside of time. As the minutes passed, I felt a growing sense of absorbed anticipation. The single-minded focus of the graceful wader was almost unnerving. Its golden eyes never strayed from the moving fish; its sleek body remained taut with concentration. Like many others before me, I marveled at a hunting heron's controlled paralysis. "How calm, how silent, how grand is the scene," wrote the nineteenth-century naturalist, John James Audubon. "You might imagine what you see to be the statue of a bird, so motionless is it."

After what seemed to be an eternity, the patient predator suddenly sprang into action. Its coiled neck shot forward like a striking cobra. Its stiletto beak speared the hapless minnow, tossed it into the air and swallowed it head-first with one gulp. Its mission accomplished, the gray-suited heron took flight with a tranquil swoosh of its majestic wings. At once graceful and ponderous, the lanky bird rose slowly, retracting its spindly legs and tucking its long neck under its beak.

Herons are remarkable not only for their patience but their resilience. These prehistoric birds were almost wiped out in North America. During the 19th century, hunters killed thousands for sport and for their prized plumage. Heron feathers adorned ladies hats and decorative military helmets. In 1900 an ounce of plumes brought $32. And it took four herons to produce an ounce of plumage. Millions of birds were slaughtered.

The death of so many herons prompted the creation of the Audubon Society, which lobbied successfully for legislation outlawing the killing of herons and egrets. Yet even more herons died during the 20th century, unwittingly poisoned by the popular pesticide DDT.

But since 1972, when DDT was banned, the blue heron has mounted a remarkable comeback, even though its wetland habitats have been diminishing. Herons have been able to adapt to new challenges because they have few predators (humans and eagles), and they are willing to eat just about anything. In addition to fish, great blue herons consume frogs, salamanders, crustaceans, small mammals, snakes, small birds, and even insects.

Watching the heron at the Furman lake reminded me that nature instructs as well as inspires. What began as a scene of simple wonder turned into a memorable spectacle with a valuable lesson. The heron's prolonged meditation testified to our human need for some solitude and stillness amid the buzz and boil of modern life. Like the wading bird, we too need to seize opportunities to shrug off time, hush the surrounding noise, and savor the immediate present. Such sabbatical moments help calm the frenzy of our daily routine and enable us to gather the scattered pieces of our selves-and our souls.