The Master Angler
Because it is one of the few birds seeming to show a disregard for its own comfort, standing in a bleak place by the hour to catch a small fish, the heron always strikes me as being closer to the reptiles than any other bird. This week I watched a heron on a little stream. There was something contemplative in his posture. Perhaps he knew that there was a fish in that spot, and waited for his quarry to appear. His patience outlasted mine. I went on my way, and returned about an hour later. He was still there, a sad, leaden-coloured creature, standing in the fringe of the reeds, ruffled by a frosty breeze but showing no sign of the weariness that would by now have come to the most ardent fisherman. In winter the heron survives by this very indifference to all things but the seizing of a particular fish or water-creature. He is glad of anything that comes his way, and ready to wait for it to come. The one I watched rose after making a stab at something I could not see. He came on to the bank, walked a yard or two and flapped into the air, a lean bag of bones going higher in the grey sky, complaining as he went with a harsh cry.
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