Nestled between Bayshore Drive and Tampa Bay, Cooper’s Bayou has a kayak launch, mangroves, paved walking trails, and a lake.
This morning it also has a great blue heron who eyes me suspiciously as I make my way around the small pond. I squat to take his picture in the early light, but he’ll have none of it. He flies a few feet away, and as I continue my walk, he takes off again, his avian annoyance palpable as he sets his black bony feet down in a fresh patch of grass.
I keep walking; in a burst of anthropomorphism, I assume that if I ignore him, he’ll understand I mean him no harm. However, herons have few, if any, human characteristics, so that little plan fails instantly as he honks and flies off again, this time across the pond. I watch him flap across the water, his feather silver in the growing light. When he comes in for a landing, he pushes his legs down and forward of his body so they land in front of him. He settles his feathers back in place and glares at me as I continue to make my way along the path.
A cover of gallinules catches my eye. A small family pads through the springy grass at the edge of the lake – a male, female, and chicks. The moorhens care less about my presence five feet from their chicks than the adult heron on the lake’s opposite side does. The gallinules cluck and shuffle their way back to the river, ignoring me even as I feel the beady, paranoid eyes of the big blue following me.
More people start their pre-work routines with a stroll over the mossy tree-lined path or an earnest run through the park as they pound pavement down Bayshore. I watch Big Blue as he watches me and ignores the others. Why, I wonder, does he single me out when they come just as close to his new patch of territory? How close can I get before he will take flight again? I resolve not to pay another moment of attention to him. I pretend not to notice him out of the corner of my eye. He pretends not to notice me back out of the corner of his.
The lens cover goes back on my camera. I study the moss with indifference as I continue the circle. I do not notice how I inch ever closer to Big Blue. I can’t tell that he’s shuffling his wings and tensing his featherlight body. I am not irritated when he takes flight again, this time into the trees, honking and squawking his annoyance to all who will listen.
I sigh and stop, abandoning all pretense of not caring. I didn’t care when I first saw him. Now, though, it matters: Big Blue made it personal. Herons on the beach have accosted my brightly-hued toenails; they’ve all but perched on my shoulder and bleated soft, sweet nothings in my ear as I baited a hook with squid. They’ve looked down their pointy beaks with disdain as I paddled past their culinary mudflat discoveries. They have utterly abandoned posts when I came too close.
That is the crux of my irritation: had Big Blue flown off directly, I would not care. It is the half-hearted paranoia that bothers me – he didn’t seem to want to make the effort to leave. I sigh and resume my walk.
Except I am back at my car. My walk is over. Big Blue hijacked my morning stroll. I think back over the last few moments in nature; I recall the skinny coots and the fat moss, but, aside from that, I remember nothing but Big Blue and his skittery, taunting paranoia. I shake my head and laugh at myself.
Somewhere from the mangroves I swear I hear a honking laugh joining in.
