There are photographs I like because they are technically good.
There are photographs I like because something interesting happened.
And then there are photographs like this one.
They make me smile.
Not because it is the most dramatic photograph I have ever taken. Not because a Great Egret catching a fish is particularly rare. And certainly not because the fish appears thrilled with the arrangement.
I smile because this photograph reminds me of why I’ll get up tomorrow morning and do it all over again.
Before sunrise.
Camera ready.
Probably wearing waders.
And absolutely no idea what the Narrow River has planned for me.
That may be the best part.
The Artist Sees a Painting
There is something almost dreamlike about this image.
The Great Egret doesn’t dominate the frame. In fact, much of the photograph is wonderfully empty.
And that emptiness is what makes it work.
The bird rises from a soft wash of green, while behind it the river dissolves into layers of blue. There is almost no detail competing for attention. No branches. No shoreline. No clutter.
Just color.
Green below.
Blue above.
And emerging between them, that magnificent sweep of white.
The egret’s neck curves downward like a question mark.
And at the end of that question mark is the answer:
Breakfast.
The yellow-orange bill creates the strongest streak of warm color in the photograph, leading your eye directly to the small silver fish.
Everything else is soft.
The background is soft.
The foreground is soft.
Even the egret seems to materialize out of the landscape rather than simply stand within it.
But the eye is sharp.
The bill is sharp.
And the fish is sharp enough to tell us exactly what just happened.
It is a photograph built as much from what you cannot see as from what you can.
And I love that.
The Naturalist Sees Something Else
Now take off the artist’s hat for a moment.
The naturalist sees a predator doing exactly what millions of years of evolution prepared it to do.
A Great Egret is a remarkably patient hunter.
It can stand nearly motionless in shallow water, watching.
Waiting.
Calculating.
Then comes that astonishing strike.
The long neck that appeared so graceful a moment earlier becomes a remarkably effective spring-loaded fishing apparatus. The bill shoots forward, the prey is seized, repositioned, and typically swallowed whole.
And there is an important lesson hidden in that little fish.
To me, the fish is not merely a prop in an egret photograph.
It is evidence.
Evidence that the river is alive.
Somewhere beneath that smooth surface is an entire world I rarely see.
Small fish.
Crabs.
Eels.
Invertebrates.
Predators and prey.
Things hiding in the eelgrass and moving with the tide.
An egret standing in the shallows is almost like a naturalist’s sampling device. Watch what it catches and, little by little, the river begins revealing what lives beneath the surface.
That’s one of the reasons I can return to the same place over and over again and never really photograph the same place twice.
The tide changes.
The light changes.
The wind changes.
The birds change.
The prey changes.
And the river changes with them.
Which Brings Me to Tomorrow Morning
That’s what this photograph really means to me.
Tomorrow.
Because somewhere out there tonight, while I’m looking at this photograph, the Narrow River is carrying on perfectly well without me.
The tide is moving.
Fish are feeding.
Birds are settling in.
Nocturnal creatures are beginning their shift.
And somewhere an egret may already have selected tomorrow morning’s fishing spot.
The river doesn’t know I’m coming.
It certainly doesn’t care what lens I bring.
And it has made absolutely no commitment regarding photographic opportunities.
That’s the deal.
I show up.
The river decides.
Maybe tomorrow there will be an osprey diving.
Maybe a deer will step from the marsh grass.
Maybe an egret will catch something I’ve never seen it catch before.
Maybe an eagle will appear.
Maybe the sunrise will set the entire marsh on fire.
Or maybe…
nothing spectacular will happen.
I’ve learned that even nothing can be pretty wonderful out there.
Because eventually you begin to understand that the reward isn’t simply bringing home the photograph.
It’s being there when morning happens.
It’s standing quietly enough to watch a world awaken that would have awakened whether you were there or not.
It’s realizing that the more mornings you spend in nature, the less ordinary any of it becomes.
That is why this photograph makes me smile.
That little fish reminds me that there is always something beneath the surface I haven’t seen yet.
That Great Egret reminds me that patience is usually rewarded.
And all that beautiful empty space reminds me that nature doesn’t have to fill every corner to create something extraordinary.
So tomorrow morning I’ll go back.
I’ll bring the camera.
I’ll bring the long lens.
I’ll bring my curiosity.
But most importantly, I’ll bring something nature has taught me to carry every single time I walk toward that river:
wonder.
Because I don’t know what the Narrow River will show me tomorrow.
And I wouldn’t want to.
The mystery is part of the gift.
See you in the morning, River.
I’ll be watching.
And, as always…
you get to decide what happens next.
Naturally.
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