Great blue herons hunt the shallows in late spring

The tide pools near Bellingham hold their breath between waves. Water settles in the carved basins, clear enough to count the barnacles clustered on wet stone. Above the rocky shore, where freshwater streams meet salt, a great blue heron stands motionless in the shallows.

The heron's neck curves in a perfect S, head cocked at an angle that seems impossible to hold. But this is the hunting posture, refined through countless mornings like this one. The bird's yellow eyes track movement below the surface. Each ripple registers. Each shadow shifting across the sandy bottom draws attention. The heron can stand this way for twenty minutes without moving, a study in controlled patience that makes the surrounding world seem frantic by comparison. When fish move into the shallow water to spawn or feed, the heron strikes with surgical precision. The spear-like bill penetrates the water and emerges with prey clamped tight.

Late spring brings abundance to these coastal waters. Juvenile salmon move through the estuaries, following ancient routes toward the open ocean. Small fish gather in the warming shallows to feed on the season's first blooms of marine algae. Crabs scuttle between the rocks, newly molted and vulnerable. The heron takes advantage of all of this. Its diet shifts with whatever moves within striking distance. A young rockfish. A sculpin darting between the eelgrass beds. Sometimes a small crab, crushed and swallowed whole. The bird's hunting success depends on reading the water, understanding where prey will gather, and waiting in exactly the right place. During breeding season, this skill becomes critical. Adult herons must feed not only themselves but also their growing chicks back at the colony. The tall Douglas firs that line Bellingham's shores hold dozens of stick nests, each one demanding a steady supply of fish and crustaceans. Parent birds make repeated trips between the feeding grounds and the rookery, their flight paths connecting the productive shallows to the towering conifers where the next generation waits.

The heron shifts its weight from one leg to the other, a movement so slight it barely disturbs the surface tension around its feet. Somewhere in the clear water below, a shadow moves. The bird's head tilts another degree. The morning light catches the water's surface, breaking into patterns that shift and settle with each small wave rolling in from the bay. If you are standing near water right now, you might notice how it holds the light differently than the air around it, how it bends what you see into something both familiar and strange.