The Heron Chronicles

We have to go across the river every morning to work. It's not your pretty type of waterway, more a wide expanse of silty water that comes and goes across the sandbanks, but it's mine and I love it.

I get really cross every time more detritus is added to the pile under the bridge, such as the 40 or so old car tyres that some moron chucked over a few months ago, or the shopping trolley that is slowly being engufled by the mud, or the child's bicycle alongside it. You get the picture. People actually go out of their way to littler what could be a semi beautiful place, and gawd knows we don't have much natural beauty in Widnes to start with.

Anyway, the joy of my trip either way is looking out for the heron. He likes to stand at the edge of the little pools between the sandbanks, ankle deep in water. He remains aloof from the other birds, in fact I'm certain he only goes there to look down on them. I love his expression of utter despondancy. He hangs his head in what looks like a permanent sigh at the state of the world. He strongly disapproves of the skittish seagulls and other foul who galavant about him with no dignity. Usually he keeps just away from the others and turns his back ever so slightly, like a disappointed teacher questioning why he even bothers. What's not to love about such a creature?

I have binoculars and I would love to get a closer look at the heron, but then people might think i was a birdwatcher and where's the rock 'n roll cred in that? Perhaps I can learn from him and look whilst not actually looking? I'll let you know if I ever manage it.