Bohemia Village Voice

Heron

 The heron and I were alone in the rain – he hunched on the far side of the pond, waiting for fish, oblivious of the weather, I soaked through, gazing across at him through rain like stair-rods. When you reach a certain level of wetness, it ceases to matter, in mild weather anyway. The heron seemed to think so, his long, thin figure and long, grey feathers co-ordinating perfectly with the drooping branches of the willows and the silvery-grey spurts of water springing up from the pond’s surface as the heavy rain peppered it like shot. It was getting on for evening, and the only sound to be heard was the hiss of raindrops on the water.   The stillness of the heron gave the impression that there never had been, and never would be, anything but the rain, the dancing water, and the patient waiting of the melancholy bird. Suddenly the heron had enough of my gaze on him and took off, thin legs trailing, as he made a wide circuit of the Swannery to alight in a spot safely hidden from human eyes.