So there I am, creeping along the shore like a discount nature documentary host, stalking two Great Blue Herons. My goal? A majestic shot: one heron above the other like a feathery echo, or wingtips so close they could qualify for a synchronized flying medal. Maybe even a flawless dual water landing—splashes perfectly matched, judges giving 10s across the board.
Instead, right after this shot, they suddenly break formation like they just remembered they left the oven on. One peels off to “get groceries,” the other mutters something about “picking up the laundry.” Romance is dead.
In my head, I’m still thinking, Okay, fine. At least I nailed the reflection shot. What I didn’t know was that, down in the water, their reflections were freelancing.
Apparently, they decided to moonlight as performance artists, morphing into the shadowy outline of a giant, imaginary bird. Not a heron—something bigger, stranger, possibly capable of eating small canoes.
I swear these two had a meeting beforehand:
“Okay, Bob, let’s give him a giant-bird illusion. You take the left wing, I’ll handle the beak.”
“Got it. And after that, dry cleaners?”
Maybe I’m just a birdbrain… but I’m pretty sure I just photographed the heron equivalent of an improv comedy troupe. And I love it.
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