About a year ago, I took a path through some agricultural pasture. I was exhausted from work, longingly missing my bed and fridge. My 40 minute commute was threatening to turn into a 60 minute one, if I would not hurry to my bus. And as I was passing by a free-standing garage, I saw a bird standing proudly on top.

It was a heron, towering over the landscape on its unnaturally elevated position. You normally see them in grasslands and wading through ponds. This one had chosen this garage as a vantage point. Maybe it was still young, the feathers were ruffled, as if it had grown faster than its plumage.

Stepping closer, I did not dare disturb it, but also needed to perceive it. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a heron up close, but due to their long beak extending almost all the way to the back of their heads, they have a sickly smile. Something you’d associate with a cartoon villain gone mad with power. Or maybe a species so alien and so powerful, they did not have to care about diplomatic relations with humans.

But this one was just standing there, staring into the distance. I don’t know if herons have bad eyesight or are just very distractable. Maybe this one also just did not see me as a threat. I mean I could not even reach it if I wanted to. It was the king of these acres. It certainly seemed fat like a monarch.

We humans fail to appreciate the physics of flying. If you’re small you can get away with reasonable wings if you vibrate them fast enough. But large enough to stalk through ponds and pierce fish? You need to have a body dedicated to storing your wings. In contrast, the neck snakes its way up much further than you would imagine, ideal for piercing fish I imagine.

Maybe it was hunting. I don’t know what herons eat beyond fish. Nature probably does not care that I feel weird about a heron swallowing a mouse whole. The mouse probably cares, and I don’t know if the staring into the distance strategy is working for my colleague. I’m wondering how much a heron could injure me if it wanted to.

The heron was still standing at the edge of the garage roof, craning its neck. In staring at it, I had entered some sort of uneasy solidarity with it. Maybe it was waiting for a friend. Or it had another interesting animal to stare at, like I am doing right now. It must surely feel the cold as well. What do birds do to warm themselves up? I’m imagining a heron in a Christmas sweater, punching its head into a cup of hot chocolate.

I suppose I had seen a heron up close now. I’m not going to hunt it or a throw a stone at it, so what is there to do but to keep on walking? Well, I knew I would want to relay this encounter to my friends. Certainly not as obsessed with birds as I am, I don’t think the mere idea of seeing a bird tantalises them much. So, what gives? I’m going to get my phone out.

And with the movement into my pocket, it felt like the spell keeping the heron steady had broken. Braving the freezing wind, I swiped to the camera app and snapped pictures which indeed showed a bird on top of a garage.

And the heron snapped. Not metaphorically, I think. It opened its gigantic beak, breaking the illusion of that sickly smile with the even more unnerving pink gullet lined with barbs. The sound of it snapping it closed was loud. Louder than I would’ve thought. It had the same tone as a wooden ball being thrown at full speed against a plywood floor. This was a warning. Or a complaint.

The wings opened, revealing the smaller body. But still, nothing about this bird felt fragile. It was shaped like a fighter jet. Now finally completing its dominant position over the landscape with wings spanning wide enough as if to say “everything here is my domain, because I have these”. Flopping its wings to get a running start, it flew away. Not taking to the sky to maybe divebomb me. It glided just maybe 30 metres away. To a patch on the field. Maybe it got sick of the high and mighty act.