The blue heron -- well, in truth, he's gray. Like this morning was, with a promise of unending grayness the rest of the week.
I knew Big Blue would be at the river after I dropped Monica off at the bus stop, so I drove down with camera nearby. There he was, posed proudly on the dock, as if fishing were the farthest thing from his mind.

Blue herons lie. He was there at the Red Dragon Canoe Club dock for breakfast. He knew that frisky young fish -- probably striped bass fingerlings -- gathered under the dock. If he was patient, hed soon have a meal.





Time and again, he saw something but hesitated. But then, he noticed that the fish were hiding in the crack between the floating docks. Aha! he seemed to think. If I can just angle my legs right, maybe I won't topple into the drink before I snag one.

Suddenly, he dove.



Gripping the dock tightly with his toes, spreading his wings for balance, he thrust his neck between the docks.
Just as suddenly, the memory card on the camera was full, so I couldn't record the six or seven-inch fish that was wiggling in his beak when he stood up on the dock, turned away from the water and commenced his morning meal.