Some mornings I see him, some mornings I don't. When I see him, I recognize him immediately; even from a great distance, he is distinct. He is tall and thin and in his every move he exudes gracefulness. Whether he is standing on a post, or in the shallow eddy at the edge of the lake, he is beautiful. When the mist swirls around his spindly legs and the low light of the new morning makes him glow, he is at his most lovely.
His soft blue, smoky gray feathers have some white, black and maybe a little orange thrown in. At his full height, he might be three...no...four-feet tall.
He eludes me.
I see him, but he eludes me.
I want to capture his beauty in a photograph but he escapes me. The closer I get, the farther away he flies. If I could only get close enough to him, he would know the strength of my affection; he would feel the connection between us. He would know no harm would come to him. Yet he vanishes in a quiet whisper of wings, only to relocate himself out of reach of both me, and my camera.
It is not enough that there are other photographs like the one I am trying to capture; they are not my heron.
They are not my Great Blue Heron.
Mine.
My own.
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