The Heron's Patience

Gray stood in the shallows of Willow Pond with the water lapping gently around his long, thin legs. He had been standing there since the sun first peeked over the tall pine trees, and now it was high above them, warm on his feathered back.

He hadn't caught a single fish.

Not one.

Gray was a great blue heron — though he wasn't really blue at all. He was more the color of a rain cloud, with a streak of black above each golden eye that made him look very serious. He was very serious. Fishing was serious business.

"You're STILL here?" called a voice from the cattails.

It was Dash, the kingfisher, zipping past in a blur of blue and orange. Dash never stayed in one place longer than it took to blink.

"I'm fishing," said Gray, without moving his beak.

"You're standing," said Dash. "Fishing is when you actually catch a fish. Watch THIS!"

Dash rocketed into the air, folded his wings, and dove straight into the water like a tiny feathered arrow. SPLASH! He came up with a minnow wriggling in his beak.

"See?" Dash said, after he swallowed it. "That took four seconds. You've been here four HOURS."

Gray said nothing. He kept his eyes on the water.

"Suit yourself, statue-bird!" Dash laughed, and he zoomed away over the reeds.

Gray didn't mind. He watched the water. A leaf drifted by. A water strider skated past his ankle. The pond was quiet again.

Then along came Tumble, the young raccoon, splashing through the shallows with her paws slapping at everything that moved.

"Whatcha doing, Gray?"

"Fishing."

"Ooh! Me too! I LOVE fishing!"

Tumble plunged both paws into the water and churned it up like a washing machine. Mud swirled. Bubbles popped. Water splashed up onto Gray's chest feathers.

"Did I get one? Did I get one?" Tumble pulled her paws out. She was holding a clump of pond weed and an old acorn cap.

"Not exactly," said Gray.

"Hmm." Tumble tossed the pond weed over her shoulder. "This is boring. I'm gonna go find some crayfish under the rocks. Those are easier. Bye, Gray!"

And she bounded away, splashing as she went, sending every fish within fifty feet darting for the deep water.

Gray blinked slowly. He watched the mud clouds settle. He watched the water grow clear again, inch by inch, until he could see the sandy bottom and the pebbles and the way the sunlight made golden coins on the mud.

He waited.

A dragonfly landed on the tip of his beak. It sat there, its wings catching the light like tiny windows. Gray didn't even twitch. After a while, the dragonfly flew away on its own.

"Gray," said a quiet voice. It was Old Maple, the turtle, floating nearby with just her nose and eyes above the water. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Since sunrise," said Gray.

"Caught anything?"

"Not yet."

Old Maple watched him for a long, slow moment. Turtles are good at long, slow moments.

"You gonna quit?" she asked.

"No," said Gray.

Old Maple nodded, which made a tiny ripple. "Good pond today," she said. "Fish are here. They're just being careful." Then she sank beneath the surface without another word, the way turtles do.

Gray watched the water.

The afternoon shadows began to stretch across the pond. A cool breeze ruffled the surface. Gray's legs ached from standing so still on the rocky bottom. His neck was stiff from holding it in that perfect S-shaped curve, coiled and ready.

He was hungry.

He thought about the minnow Dash had caught so easily. He thought about Tumble, probably munching crayfish right now under some rock. He thought about all the other herons at the rookery who would be coming home with full bellies and stories about their catches.

For just a moment — one small, tired moment — Gray thought about giving up.

But then he noticed something.

The minnows had come back first, the way they always do — tiny silver threads darting near the surface. Then the sunfish, round and curious, nosing along the bottom. The mud that Tumble had stirred up was long gone. The water was clear and calm and perfect.

And there — right there — just past the shadow of the lily pad, a shape was moving. Bigger than a sunfish. Slower. A fat, golden-sided perch was gliding through the shallows, following the minnows, completely unaware that a gray statue with golden eyes was watching.

Gray didn't breathe.

The perch drifted closer. Two feet away. Then one foot. Then it was right there, just below the surface, its fins waving like little silk fans.

Gray's neck uncoiled like a spring.

His beak shot into the water so fast it barely made a splash — just a quick, clean SNAP that sent a ring of ripples racing across the pond.

When his head came back up, the perch was caught crosswise in his beak, wriggling and flashing gold in the afternoon sun. It was the biggest fish he'd ever caught. Bigger than anything Dash could dream of diving for. Bigger than any crayfish hiding under any rock.

Gray tilted his head back and swallowed it in one long gulp. He could feel it going all the way down, warm and wonderful.

"WHOA!" Dash was back, perched on a nearby branch with his beak hanging open. "That fish was the size of my whole BODY! How did you DO that?"

Gray ruffled his feathers and finally — finally — shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

"I stood here," he said.

"That's IT?"

"That's it."

Dash shook his head so fast it was a blur. "I could never. I just — I don't have the — how do you not go CRAZY?"

Gray thought about this for a moment.

"The pond tells you things," he said, "if you stay long enough to listen. Where the fish like to swim. When the water goes still. You just have to be there when the right moment comes."

Dash tilted his head one way, then the other. "Huh," he said. And for once, he sat on his branch for a whole five seconds before zipping away.

Gray stretched his great wide wings — they spread out like gray sails, enormous and slow. He flapped once, twice, and lifted off the water, his long legs trailing behind him. The pond shrank below as he rose above the pines.

He soared toward the rookery where the other herons were settling in for the evening. The sky was turning orange and pink, and the world below was going soft and golden.

His belly was full. His wings were strong. The air carried him home.

Down at the pond, Old Maple poked her head above the surface and watched him go. She smiled — or at least, she did that thing turtles do with their mouths that looks an awful lot like a smile.

"Good pond today," she said to nobody in particular.

Then she sank below the water and disappeared, leaving nothing but a tiny ripple that spread slowly, slowly, slowly across the still and patient pond.