I want to tell you about the great blue heron. About the way it stands motionless, patiently, for long stretches of time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to snag a creature in its beak. I want to tell you about its posture, tall and upright, neck taut, head angled, as it surveys the landscape. And about how its neck curves like an S as it steps slowly on those three-toed feet, leaving a trail of prints that I think of as upside-down peace signs without the circles. I want to tell you about its wingspan when it first alights, how surprisingly wide and elegant it is. I want to tell you that one is standing, in real life, right now at the edge of a cliff looking out over the ocean as I stand beneath it, looking up. I’d say it’s about 50 feet above me, facing southwest, legs straight, neck slightly crooked, wing feathers fluttering in the onshore breeze.
I often see herons hunting alongside other birds, including the great egret — almost as tall and similar in shape but not nearly so colorful, pure white with a yellow beak instead of the blues and grays, darker and lighter feathers worn by the great blue. Some pebbles and scree let loose and tumble down as the heron remains at the cliff edge, which has been undermined from below, the king tides of the full moon having just come and gone. Following these highest of high tides, you sometimes see newly eroded sections of the cliffs and bluffs, fresh deposits at their base, soon to be washed into the sea.
The king tides are harbingers of the future. They make sea-level rise tangible. Inch by inch, slide by slide, the continent’s edge is being reshaped. Does the heron, so focused on feeding, know of the rising seas? Great blue herons typically eat fish, but they also forage in fields and eat frogs and snakes, even rodents. That makes the great blue resilient, adaptable. When I hear that birds evolved from dinosaurs, it’s the great blue heron that I think about, with its scruffy bib and its spiky crown feathers. Who knows how ancient its ancestors are? What I do know, what holds my attention whenever I see one, is the admiration I have for the patience, the extreme focus, the grace and elegance of this bird. I wish those things for myself and my species. We come from the same source, some spark of energy ancient and wise beyond any of our lifetimes on this planet, with its rising seas and eroding cliffs and a human civilization well aware of what’s happening, but not yet ready to adapt in ways that will matter. Even as we stare in wonder at the glory of nature, it’s important to not lose sight of these things.
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This article appeared in the print edition of the magazine with the headline A message from the coast.
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