I’ve seen the Great Blue Heron, still and erect on a sandbank, fishing.
I’ve even seen it with a mullet, speared and dangling from its beak.
I’ve seen it in the treetops, neck drawn in, hunkered over, resembling a football on stilts.
I’ve seen it flying past my window, neck stretched out like an arrow,
legs trailing behind like forgotten baggage.
But that afternoon in the Honey Island Swamp near Slidell, Louisiana,
was the first time I’d ever seen one shake water off its body like a dog.
