A perfect July day, a small wooden motorboat, a few beers, binoculars, camera, and no schedule. Most of all, no schedule.
We go up the River, intruding on the Great Blue Heron, at his post, watching, waiting. He is patience incarnate. He is the Hunter, the Watcher.
We are intruders, neophytes to the way of the river, to the life of the Heron -- He Who Watches; He Who Waits.
He has seen us a mile away, but he never moves, waiting for us to glide past, ruffling the early afternoon waters as the tide flows, almost to slack high tide.
Our conversation pauses, and we gaze at him in awe, as we sail through his kingdom.