Sunset scene flight seen.

Two weeks ago I saw a heron in Stephen's Green. It was perched on the top of a tree, unusually I thought. There were a good few people gathered just below the tree, but they did not seem to have noticed the heron. They were all paying attention to the swans and their cygnets, and the ducks, pigeons and herring gulls, that had gathered at the lake's edge. One man was feeding full slices of bread to the swans, keeping hold of one side of the slice even as a swan nabbed the other side in its beak, wrestling it to and fro between man and swan until he let go and the bird gobbled the bread. He appeared relaxed about the risk of a bad bite to his hand, and even less concerned about how dangerously unhealthy it is for the swans to eat sliced pan, despite the signs warning people not to feed the birds. It felt like no-one but me was looking at the heron.

I decided to take another photo of the heron on the treetop silhouetted against the sunset, without the swans and their audience. As I did so, the heron took off, and I got this lucky picture of the long-legged bird in flight.

I felt lucky to have seen it, and also to have captured it with a camera. Still none of the swan worriers had noticed the heron soaring above their heads. I took another picture. This time the heron looked like a crazy cartoon chicken.

Actually it's the heron flying towards me, but unused to seeing a flying bird from that angle, and conditioned to seeing birds represented side on, it looks strange.

Was this encounter a lesson in attention? In noticing what others are ignoring, or in ignoring what is trying hardest to get your attention? Was it a lesson in luck? Or in seeing beauty and resilience in uncommon forms in familiar places? Or was it just a moment with a beautiful bird in flight at sunset on a winter's day? For all of these, I am grateful. Happy New Year.