An Offer He Couldn’t Be Bothered With
There are moments in nature photography when you realize you are no longer photographing wildlife.
You are photographing a movie.
And on this particular morning, I’m pretty sure I witnessed the avian remake of The Godfather.
The star was already in position.
A magnificent Great Blue Heron stood motionless on a little peninsula of marsh grass, surrounded by the soft greens of summer and the dark, glassy water of the river.
He looked magnificent.
Regal.
Stoic.
Completely in command.
Basically, Don Herone.
He wasn’t hunting.
He wasn’t preening.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
He was simply standing there with the quiet confidence of a bird who knew the entire marsh belonged to him.
I was taking pictures when something white appeared behind him.
A Herring Gull.
Swimming.
Casually.
Very casually.
At first, I thought nothing of it.
Apparently, neither did the heron.
The gull kept coming.
Paddle.
Paddle.
Paddle.
Now, Herring Gulls are not exactly known for respecting personal boundaries.
These are birds that will steal your french fries while you’re still deciding which one to eat.
So perhaps I should have known where this was headed.
The gull spotted the heron.
And something changed.
I could almost hear him thinking:
Is that who I think it is?
Paddle.
Paddle.
Paddle.
The Great Blue Heron did absolutely nothing.
The gull came closer.
Nothing.
Closer.
Nothing.
Until finally this gull was practically swimming directly into the personal space of a bird equipped with a dagger for a face.
This seemed unwise.
I have photographed Great Blue Herons striking at fish with astonishing speed. That long neck can go from decorative plumbing to ballistic weapon in an instant.
The gull apparently had not read the brochure.
He just kept coming.
At this point, the scene had all the tension of a classic mob movie.
The gull was approaching the boss.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Perhaps he had business to discuss.
Maybe there had been some disagreement involving territorial fishing rights.
Maybe somebody had taken somebody else’s crab.
Maybe the gull simply wanted protection for the upcoming clam season.
Whatever the reason, he swam right up to Don Herone.
And the Don…
didn’t even flinch.
Not a feather.
Not a step.
Not even one of those little heron head movements that says, I am aware of you and am currently calculating your nutritional value.
Nothing.
The gull looked up.
The heron looked out.
It was magnificent.
The ultimate insult.
The gull had managed to get right in his face and somehow wasn’t important enough to be acknowledged.
I imagined the conversation.
“Don Herone, I come to you today seeking your respect.”
Silence.
“I’ve been swimming all morning.”
Silence.
“I brought information about the egrets.”
Silence.
“Did I mention I know where the baitfish are?”
Still nothing.
Finally, the gull seemed to understand.
This meeting was over.
No dramatic confrontation.
No chase.
No stabbing.
No feathers flying.
Just a Herring Gull slowly realizing that perhaps the most humiliating response to invading someone’s personal space isn’t aggression.
It’s being completely ignored.
And that’s what makes these mornings on the river so wonderful.
I go out looking for beautiful light, interesting wildlife, and perhaps a photograph I’ve never taken before.
Instead, nature occasionally gives me a screenplay.
No director.
No actors.
No rehearsal.
Just two wild birds behaving exactly as wild birds do—and my imagination doing what it apparently does when left unattended before breakfast.
The gull eventually continued on his way.
The Great Blue Heron remained exactly where he was.
Because when you’re Don Herone, you don’t move for just anybody.
You simply stand there.
Own the marsh.
And wait until somebody brings you an offer worth considering.
Naturally.
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