Last evening, after dinner, Cecile and I strolled around the Rinconada Lake. It was one of those peaceful moments we cherished—just the two of us, walking in sync, enjoying the quiet. Then, Cecile whispered, “Look at that.”
I followed her gaze and spotted it—an elegant Great Blue Heron, standing motionless at the water’s edge. Its long slender legs were partially submerged, its sharp beak poised like a spear, its eyes locked onto the dark water below. The bird is a perfect hunter, patient and calculating.
But as it stalked its prey, I found myself stalking it. Carefully, I stepped closer, my i-phone in hand, eager to capture the moment. The heron’s body tensed, its elegant frame stretching ever so slightly. I held my breath, waiting. A single twitch of its neck, a sudden movement, and it would take to the sky. I inched forward, the heron remained still. My foot pressed into the soft earth, and just as I steadied my aim—Whoosh! Its massive wings unfurled, and the heron lifted off the ground with effortless grace, its shadow skimming across the lake’s surface. I snapped a burst of photos like a member of the paparazzi, hoping to catch it mid-flight, its broad wings catching the last light of the day.
“Did you get it?” Cecile asked. I checked my phone. A few blurry shots, a couple of silhouettes, and one—just one—where the heron’s wings were spread wide, its form majestic against the twilight sky. I turned the screen toward her. “Stalker caught in the act.” She smiled, slipping her arm under mine as we continued our walk. The lake was still again, the heron now just a distant figure gliding away toward the trees. The hunt was over—for both of us.
